tbf  I&atnfs  of 
(good  Him  and 


MIRIAM   EDITION 

Written  by  Elbert  Hubbard 
and  done  into  a  Book  by  The 
Roycrofters  at  their  Shop,  at 
East  Aurora,  New  York,  mem  x 


Copyright  1910 

by 
Elbert  Hubbard 


HSf 


CONTENTS 


GEORGE  ELIOT       . 
THOMAS  CARLYLE      . 
JOHN  RUSKIN 
W.  E.  GLADSTONE 
J.  M.  W.  TURNER     . 
JONATHAN  SWIFT       . 
WALT  WHITMAN 


9 
29 

•      49 
67 

.      87 

107 

.     127 


GEORGE     ELIOT 


"May  I  reach 

That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love, 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty — 
Be  the  good  presence  of  a  good  diffused, 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense. 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world." 


GEORGE     ELIOT 


i  ARWICKSHIRE  gave  to  the  world  William 
Shakespeare.  It  also  gave  Mary  Ann 
Evans.  No  one  will  question  that  Shakes- 
peare's is  the  greatest  name  in  English 
literature;  and  among  writers  living  or 
dead,  in  England  or  out  of  it,  no  woman 
has  ever  shown  us  power  equal  to  that  of 
George  Eliot,  in  the  subtle  clairvoyance 
which  divines  the  inmost  play  of  passions, 
the  experience  that  shows  human  capacity 
for  contradiction,  and  the  indulgence  that 
is  merciful  because  it  understands. 
Shakespeare  lived  three  hundred  years  ago. 
According  to  the  records,  his  father,  in 
Fifteen  Hundred  Sixty-three,  owned  a 
certain  house  in  Henley  Street,  Stratford- 
on-Avon.  Hence  we  infer  that  William 
Shakespeare  was  born  there.  And  in  all 
our  knowledge  of  Shakespeare's  early  life 
(or  later)  we  prefix  the  words,  "Hence 
we  infer." 

That  the  man  knew  all  the  sciences  of 
his  day,  and  had  such  a  knowledge  of  each 
of  the  learned  professions  that  all  have 
claimed  him  as  their  own,  we  realize. 
He  evidently  was  acquainted  with  five 
different  languages,  and  the  range  of  his 
intellect  was  world-wide,  but  where  did 
he  get  this  vast  erudition?  We  do  not 


IO 


GEORGE     ELIOT 


know,  and  we  excuse  ourselves  by  saying  that  he  lived  three 
hundred  years  ago. 

George  Eliot  lived — yesterday,  and  we  know  no  more  about 
her  youthful  days  than  we  do  of  that  other  child  of  War- 
wickshire jfc  jt 

One  biographer  tells  us  that  she  was  born  in  Eighteen 
Hundred  Nineteen,  another  in  Eighteen  Hundred  Twenty, 
and  neither  state  the  day;  whereas  a  recent  writer  in  the 
"Pall  Mali  Budget"  graciously  bestows  on  us  the  useful 
information  that  "William  Shakespeare  was  born  on  the 
Twenty-first  day  of  April,  Fifteen  Hundred  Sixty-three,  at 
fifteen  minutes  of  two  on  a  stormy  morning." 
Concise  statements  of  facts  are  always  valuable,  but  we 
have  none  such  concerning  the  early  life  of  George  Eliot. 
There  is  even  a  shadow  over  her  parentage,  for  no  less  an 
authority  than  the  "American  Cyclopedia  Annual"  for 
Eighteen  Hundred  Eighty,  boldly  proclaims  that  she  was 
not  a  foundling  and,  moreover,  that  she  was  not  adopted 
by  a  rich  retired  clergyman  who  gave  her  a  splendid  school- 
ing. Then  the  writer  dives  into  obscurity,  but  presently 
reappears  and  adds  that  he  does  not  know  where  she  got 
her  education.  For  all  of  which  we  are  very  grateful. 
Shakespeare  left  five  signatures,  each  written  in  a  different 
way,  and  now  there  is  a  goodly  crew  who  spell  it  "Bacon." 
<I  And  likewise  we  do  not  know  whether  it  is  Mary  Ann 
Evans,  Mary  Anne  Evans  or  Marian  Evans,  for  she  herself 
is  said  to  have  used  each  form  at  various  times. 
William  Winter — gentle  critic,  poet,  scholar — tells  us  that 
the  Sonnets  show  a  dark  spot  in  Shakespeare's  moral  record. 


GEORGE     ELIOT 11 

And  if  I  remember  rightly,  similar  things  have  been  hinted 
at  in  sewing-circles  concerning  George  Eliot.  Then  they 
each  found  the  dew  and  sunshine  in  London  that  caused 
the  flowers  of  genius  to  blossom.  The  early  productions  of 
both  were  published  anonymously,  and  lastly  they  both 
knew  how  to  transmute  thought  into  gold,  for  they  died  rich. 
<J  Lady  Godiva  rode  through  the  streets  of  Coventry,  but  I 
walked — walked  all  the  way  from  Stratford,  by  way  of 
Warwick  (call  it  Warrick,  please)  and  Kenilworth  Castle. 
<J  I  stopped  overnight  at  that  quaint  and  curious  little 
inn  just  across  from  the  castle  entrance.  The  good  landlady 
gave  me  the  same  apartment  that  was  occupied  by  Sir 
Walter  Scott  when  he  came  here  and  wrote  the  first  chapter 
of  "Kenilworth." 

The  little  room  had  pretty,  white  chintz  curtains  tied  with 
blue  ribbon,  and  similar  stuff  draped  the  mirror.  The  bed 
was  a  big  canopy  affair — I  had  to  stand  on  a  chair  in  order 
to  dive  off  into  its  feathery  depths — everything  was  very 
neat  and  clean,  and  the  dainty  linen  had  a  sweet  smell  of 
lavender.  I  took  one  parting  look  out  through  the  open 
window  at  the  ivy-mantled  towers  of  the  old  castle,  which 
were  all  sprinkled  with  silver  by  the  rising  moon,  and  then 
I  fell  into  gentlest  sleep. 

I  dreamed  of  playing  "I-spy"  through  Kenilworth  Castle 
with  Shakespeare,  Walter  Scott,  Mary  Ann  Evans  and  a 
youth  I  used  to  know  in  boyhood  by  the  name  of  Bill  Hursey. 
We  chased  each  other  across  the  drawbridge,  through  the 
portcullis,  down  the  slippery  stones  into  the  donjon-keep, 
around  the  moat,  and  up  the  stone  steps  to  the  topmost 


12 GEORGE     ELIOT 

turret  of  the  towers.  Finally  Shakespeare  was  "it,"  but  he 
got  mad  and  refused  to  play.  Walter  Scott  said  it  was  "no 
fair,"  and  Bill  Hursey  thrust  out  the  knuckle  of  one  middle 
finger  in  a  very  threatening  way  and  offered  to  "do"  the 
boy  from  Stratford.  Then  Mary  Ann  rushed  in  to  still  the 
tempest.  There's  no  telling  what  would  have  happened  had 
not  the  landlady  just  then  rapped  at  my  door  and  asked  if 
I  had  called.  I  awoke  with  a  start  and  with  the  guilty  feeling 
that  I  had  been  shouting  in  my  sleep.  I  saw  it  was  morning. 
"No — that  is,  yes;  my  shaving-water,  please." 
After  breakfast  the  landlady's  boy  offered  for  five  shillings 
to  take  me  in  his  donkey-cart  to  the  birthplace  of  George 
Eliot.  He  explained  that  the  house  was  just  seven  miles 
North ;  but  Baalam's  express  is  always  slow,  so  I  concluded 
to  walk.  At  Coventry  a  cab-owner  proposed  to  show  me 
the  house,  which  he  declared  was  near  Kenilworth,  for 
twelve  shillings.  The  advantages  of  seeing  Kenilworth  at 
the  same  time  were  dwelt  upon  at  great  length  by  cabby, 
but  I  hearkened  not  to  the  voice  of  the  siren.  I  got  a  good 
lunch  at  the  hotel,  and  asked  the  innkeeper  if  he  could  tell 
me  where  George  Eliot  was  born.  He  did  not  know,  but 
said  he  could  show  me  a  house  around  the  corner  where  a 
family  of  Eliots  lived. 

Then  I  walked  on  to  Nuneaton.  A  charming  walk  it  was; 
past  quaint  old  houses,  some  with  straw-thatched  roofs, 
others  tiled — roses  clambering  over  the  doors  and  flowering 
hedgerows  white  with'  hawthorn-flowers.  Occasionally,  I 
met  a  farmer's  cart  drawn  by  one  of  those  great,  fat,  gentle 
Shire  horses  that  George  Eliot  has  described  so  well.  All 


GEORGE     ELIOT 13 

spoke  of  peace  and  plenty,  quiet  and  rest.  The  green  fields 
and  the  flowers,  the  lark-song  and  the  sunshine,  the  dipping 
willows  by  the  stream  and  the  arch  of  the  old  stone  bridge 
as  I  approached  the  village — all  these  I  had  seen  and  known 
and  felt  before  from  "Mill  on  the  Floss." 
I  found  the  house  where  they  say  the  novelist  was  born. 
A  plain,  whitewashed,  stone  structure,  built  two  hundred 
years  ago ;  two  stories,  the  upper  chambers  low,  with  gable- 
windows;  a  little  garden  at  the  side  bright  with  flowers, 
where  sweet  majoram  vied  with  onions  and  beets ;  all  spoke 
of  humble  thrift  and  homely  cares.  In  front  was  a  great 
chestnut-tree,  and  in  the  roadway  near  were  two  ancient 
elms  where  saucy  crows  were  building  a  nest. 
Here,  after  her  mother  died,  Mary  Ann  Evans  was  house- 
keeper. Little  more  than  a  child — tall,  timid,  and  far  from 
strong — she  cooked  and  scrubbed  and  washed,  and  was 
herself  the  mother  to  brothers  and  sisters.  Her  father  was 
a  carpenter  by  trade  and  agent  for  a  rich  landowner.  He 
was  a  stern  man — orderly,  earnest,  industrious,  studious. 
On  rides  about  the  country  he  would  take  the  tall,  hollow- 
eyed  girl  with  him,  and  at  such  times  he  would  talk  to  her 
of  the  great  outside  world  where  wondrous  things  were  done. 
The  child  toiled  hard,  but  found  time  to  read  and  question — 
and  there  is  always  time  to  think.  Soon  she  had  outgrown 
some  of  her  good  father's  beliefs,  and  this  grieved  him 
greatly;  so  much,  indeed,  that  her  extra  loving  attention 
to  his  needs,  in  a  hope  to  neutralize  his  displeasure,  only 
irritated  him  the  more  ^  And  if  there  is  soft,  subdued 
sadness  in  much  of  George  Eliot's  writing  we  can  guess  the 


14 GEORGE     ELIOT 

reason.  The  onward  and  upward  march  ever  means  sad 
separation  jfc  Jt 

When  Mary  Ann  was  blossoming  into  womanhood  her 
father  moved  over  near  Coventry,  and  here  the  ambitious 
girl  first  found  companionship  in  her  intellectual  desires. 
Here  she  met  men  and  women,  older  than  herself,  who  were 
animated,  earnest  thinkers.  They  read  and  then  they  dis- 
cussed, and  then  they  spoke  the  things  that  they  felt  were 
true.  Those  eight  years  at  Coventry  transformed  the  awk- 
ward country  girl  into  a  woman  of  intellect  and  purpose. 
She  knew  somewhat  of  all  sciences,  all  philosophies,  and 
she  had  become  a  proficient  scholar  in  German  and  French. 
How  did  she  acquire  this  knowledge  ?  How  is  any  education 
acquired  if  not  through  effort  prompted  by  desire? 
She  had  already  translated  Strauss's  "Life  of  Jesus"  in"a 
manner  that  was  acceptable  to  the  author.  When  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson  came  to  Coventry  to  lecture,  he  was  enter- 
tained at  the  same  house  where  Miss  Evans  was  stopping. 
Her  brilliant  conversation  pleased  him,  and  when  she 
questioned  the  wisdom  of  a  certain  passage  in  one  of  his 
essays  the  gentle  philosopher  turned,  smiled,  and  said  that 
he  had  not  seen  it  in  that  light  before ;  perhaps  she  was  right. 
<J  "What  is  your  favorite  book?"  asked  Emerson.1 
"Rousseau's  'Confessions,'"  answered  Mary  instantly  jt 
It  was  Emerson's  favorite,  too;  but  such  honesty  from  a 
young  woman!  It  was  queer. 

Mr.  Emerson  never  forgot  Miss  Evans  of  Coventry,  and 
ten  years  after,  when  a  zealous  reviewer  proclaimed  her 
the  greatest  novelist  in  England,  the  sage  of  Concord  said 


GEORGE     ELIOT 15 

something  that  sounded  like  "I  told  you  so."  ^  Miss  Evans 
had  made  visits  to  London  from  time  to  time  with  her 
Coventry  friends.  When  twenty-eight  years  old,  after  one 
such  visit  to  London,  she  came  back  to  the  country  tired  and 
weary,  and  wrote  this  most  womanly  wish :  "My  only  ardent 
desire  is  to  find  some  feminine  task  to  discharge;  some 
possibility  of  devoting  myself  to  some  one  and  making  that 
one  purely  and  calmly  happy." 

But  now  her  father  was  dead  and  her  income  was  very  scanty. 
She  did  translating,  and  tried  the  magazines  with  articles 
that  generally  came  back  respectfully  declined. 
Then  an  offer  came  as  sub-editor  of  the  "Westminster 
Review."  It  was  steady  work  and  plenty  of  it,  and  this  was 
what  she  desired  jt  She  went  to  London  and  lived  in  the 
household  of  her  employer,  Mr.  Chapman.  Here  she  had 
the  opportunity  of  meeting  many  brilliant  people:  Carlyle 
and  his  "Jeannie  Welsh,"  the  Martineaus,  Grote,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Mill,  Huxley,  Mazzini,  Louis  Blanc.  Besides  these  were 
two  young  men  who  must  not  be  left  out  when  we  sum 
up  the  influences  that  evolved  this  woman's  genius. 
She  was  attracted  to  Herbert  Spencer  at  once.  He  was  about 
her  age,  and  their  admiration  for  each  other  was  mutual. 
Miss  Evans,  writing  to  a  friend  in  Eighteen  Hundred  Fifty- 
two,  says,  "Spencer  is  kind,  he  is  delightful,  and  I  always 
feel  better  after  being  with  him,  and  we  have  agreed  together 
that  there  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  see  each  other  as 
often  as  we  wish."  And  then  later  she  again  writes:  "The 
bright  side  of  my  life,  after  the  affection  for  my  old  friends, 
is  the  new  and  delightful  friendship  which  I  have  found  in 


16 GEORGE     ELIOT 

Herbert  Spencer.  We  see  each  other  every  day  and  in  every- 
thing we  enjoy  a  delightful  comradeship.  If  it  were  not  for 
him  my  life  would  be  singularly  arid." 
But  about  this  time  another  man  appeared  on  the  scene, 
and  were  it  not  for  this  other  man,  who  was  introduced  to 
Miss  Evans  by  Spencer,  the  author  of  "Synthetic  Philosophy" 
might  not  now  be  spoken  of  in  the  biographical  dictionaries 
as  having  been  "wedded  to  science." 

It  was  not  love  at  first  sight,  for  George  Henry  Lewes  made 
a  decidedly  unfavorable  impression  on  Miss  Evans  at  their 
first  meeting.  He  was  small,  his  features  were  insignificant, 
he  had  whiskers  like  an  anarchist  and  a  mouthful  of  crooked 
teeth ;  his  personal  habits  were  far  from  pleasant.  It  was  this 
sort  of  thing,  Dickens  said,  that  caused  his  first  wife  to  desert 
him  and  finally  drove  her  into  insanity. 
But  Lewes  had  a  brilliant  mind.  He  was  a  linguist,  a  scientist, 
a  novelist,  a  poet  and  a  wit.  He  had  written  biography, 
philosophy  and  a  play.  He  had  been  a  journalist,  a  lecturer 
and  even  an  actor.  Thackeray  declared  that  if  he  should  see 
Lewes  perched  on  a  white  elephant  in  Piccadilly  he  should 
not  be  in  the  least  surprised. 

After  having  met  Miss  Evans  several  times,  Mr.  Lewes  saw 
the  calm  depths  of  her  mind  and  he  asked  her  to  correct 
proofs  for  him.  She  did  so  and  discovered  that  there  was 
merit  in  his  work.  She  corrected  more  proofs,  and  when  a 
woman  begins  to  assist  a  man  the  danger-line  is  being 
approached  jt  Cloie  observers  noted  that  a  change  was 
coming  over  the  bohemian  Lewes.  He  had  his  whiskers 
trimmed,  his  hair  was  combed,  and  the  bright  yellow  necktie 


GEORGE     ELIOT 17 

had  been  discarded  for  a  clean  one  of  modest  brown,  and, 
sometimes,  his  boots  were  blacked  &  In  July,  Eighteen 
Hundred  Fifty-four,  Mr.  Chapman  received  a  letter  from  his 
sub-editor  resigning  her  position,  and  Miss  Evans  notified 
some  of  her  closest  friends  that  hereafter  she  wished  to  be 
considered  the  wife  of  Mr.  Lewes  jft,  She  was  then  in  her 
thirty-sixth  year. 

The  couple  disappeared,  having  gone  to  Germany. 
Many  people  were  shocked.  Some  said,  "We  knew  it  all  the 
tune,"  and  when  Herbert  Spencer  was  informed  of  the  fact 
he  exclaimed,  "Goodness  me!"  and  said — nothing. 
After  six  months  spent  at  Weimar  and  other  literary  centers, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lewes  returned  to  England  and  began  house- 
keeping at  Richmond.  Any  one  who  views  their  old  quarters 
there  will  see  how  very  plainly  and  economically  they  were 
forced  to  live.  But  they  worked  hard,  and  at  this  time  the 
future  novelist's  desire  seemed  only  to  assist  her  husband. 
That  she  developed  the  manly  side  of  his  nature  none  can 
deny.  They  were  very  happy,  these  two,  as  they  wrote,  and 
copied,  and  studied,  and  toiled. 

Three  years  passed,  and  Mrs.  Lewes  wrote  to  a  friend:  "I 
am  very  happy;  happy  with  the  greatest  happiness  that  life 
can  give — the  complete  sympathy  and  affection  of  a  man 
whose  mind  stimulates  mine  and  keeps  up  in  me  a  wholesome 
activity." 

Mr.  Lewes  knew  the  greatness  of  his  helpmeet.  She  herself 
did  not.  He  urged  her  to  write  a  story;  she  hesitated,  and  at 
last  attempted  it.  They  read  the  first  chapter  together  and 
cried  over  it.  Then  she  wrote  more  and  always  read  her 


i8 GEORGE     ELIOT 

husband  the  chapters  as  they  were  turned  off.  He  corrected, 
encouraged,  and  found  a  publisher.  But  why  should  I  tell 
about  it  here?  It's  all  in  the  "Britannica" — how  the  gentle 
beauty  and  sympathetic  insight  of  her  work  touched  the 
hearts  of  great  and  lowly  alike,  and  of  how  riches  began 
flowing  in  upon  her.  For  one  book  she  received  forty  thousand 
dollars,  and  her  income  after  fortune  smiled  upon  her  was 
never  less  than  ten  thousand  dollars  a  year. 
Lewes  was  her  secretary,  her  protector,  her  slave  and  her 
inspiration.  He  kept  at  bay  the  public  that  would  steal  her 
time,  and  put  out  of  her  reach,  at  her  request,  all  reviews, 
good  or  bad,  and  shielded  her  from  the  interviewer,  the 
curiosity-seeker,  and  the  greedy  financier. 
The  reason  why  she  at  first  wrote  under  a  nom  de  plume  is 
plain.  To  the  great,  wallowing  world  she  was  neither  Miss 
Evans  nor  Mrs.  Lewes,  so  she  dropped  both  names  as  far 
as  title-pages  were  concerned  and  used  a  man's  name  instead 
— hoping  better  to  elude  the  pack. 

When  "Adam  Bede"  came  out,  a  resident  of  Nuneaton 
purchased  a  copy  and  at  once  discovered  local  earmarks. 
The  scenes  described,  the  flowers,  the  stone  walls,  the 
bridges,  the  barns,  the  people — all  was  Nuneaton.  Who 
wrote  it?  No  one  knew,  but  it  was  surely  some  one  in 
Nuneaton.  So  they  picked  out  a  Mr.  Liggins,  a  solemn- 
faced  preacher,  who  was  always  about  to  do  something 
great,  and  they  said  "Liggins."  Soon  all  London  said 
"Liggins."  As  for  Liggins,  he  looked  wise  and  smiled 
knowingly.  Then  articles  began  to  appear  in  the  periodicals 
purporting  to  have  been  written  by  the  author  of  "Adam 


GEORGE     ELIOT 19 

Bede."  A  book  came  out  called  "Adam  Bede,  Jr.,"  and  to 
protect  her  publisher,  the  public  and  herself,  George  Eliot 
had  to  reveal  her  identity. 

Many  men  have  written  good  books  and  never  tasted  fame ; 
but  few,  like  Liggins  of  Nuneaton,  have  become  famous 
by  doing  nothing.  It  only  proves  that  some  things  can  be 
done  as  well  as  others.  This  breed  of  men  has  long  dwelt  in 
Warwickshire;  Shakespeare  had  them  in  mind  when  he 
wrote,  "There  be  men  who  do  a  wilful  stillness  entertain 
with  purpose  to  be  dressed  in  an  opinion  of  wisdom,  gravity 
and  profound  conceit." 

Lord  Acton  in  an  able  article  in  the  "Nineteenth  Century" 
makes  this  statement: 

"George  Eliot  paid  high  for  happiness  with  Lewes.  She 
forfeited  freedom  of  speech,  the  first  place  among  English 
women,  and  a  tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey." 
The  original  dedication  in  "Adam  Bede"  reads  thus:  "To 
my  dear  husband,  George  Henry  Lewes,  I  give  the  manu- 
script of  a  work  which  would  never  have  been  written  but 
for  the  happiness  which  his  love  has  conferred  on  my  life." 
CJ  Lord  Acton  of  course  assumes  that  this  book  would  have 
been  written,  dedication  and  all,  just  the  same  had  Miss 
Evans  never  met  Mr.  Lewes. 

Once  there  was  a  child  called  Romola.  She  said  to  her  father 
one  day,  as  she  sat  on  his  knee:  "Papa,  who  would  take 
care  of  me — give  me  my  bath  and  put  me  to  bed  nights — 
if  you  had  never  happened  to  meet  Mamma?" 

•  -........•**•* 

The  days  I  spent  in  Warwickshire  were  very  pleasant  jt 


20 GEORGE     ELIOT 

The  serene  beauty  of  the  country  and  the  kindly  courtesy 

of  the  people  impressed  me  greatly.  Having  beheld  the 

scenes  of  George  Eliot's  childhood,  I  desired  to  view  the 

place  where  her  last  days  were  spent.  It  was  a  fine  May 

day  when  I  took  the  little  steamer  from  London  Bridge 

for  Chelsea. 

A  bird-call  from  the  dingy  brick  building  where  Turner 

died,  and  two  blocks  from   the  old   home   of  Carlyle,  is 

Cheyne   Walk — a    broad   avenue    facing    the    river.    The 

houses  are  old,  but  they  have  a  look  of  gracious  gentility 

that  speaks  of  ease  and  plenty.  High  iron  fences  are  in 

front,  but  they  do  not  shut  off  from  view  the  climbing 

clematis  and  clusters  of  roses  that  gather  over  the  windows 

and  doors. 

I  stood  at  the  gate  of  Number  4  Cheyne  Walk  and  admired 

the  pretty  flowers,  planted  in  such  artistic  carelessness  as 

to  beds  and  rows;  then  I  rang  the  bell — an  old  pull-out 

affair  with  polished  knob. 

Presently  a  butler  opened  the  door — a  pompous,  tall  and 

awful  butler,  in  serious  black  and  with  side- whiskers.  He 

approached;  came  down  the  walk  swinging  a  bunch  of 

keys,  looking  me  over  as  he  came,  to  see  what  sort  of  wares 

I  had  to  sell. 

"Did  George  Eliot  live  here?"  I  asked  through  the  bars. 

<J  "Mrs.  Cross  lived  'ere  and  died  'ere,  sir,"  came  the 

solemn  and  rebuking  answer. 

"I  mean  Mrs.  Cross,"  I  added  meekly;  "I  only  wished 

to  see  the  little  garden  where  she  worked." 

Jeenies  was  softened.  As  he  unlocked  the  gate  he  said: 


GEOR  GE     ELIOT 21 

"We  'ave  many  wisiters,  sir;  a  great  bother,  sir;  still,  I 
always  knows  a  gentleman  when  I  sees  one.  P'r'aps  you 
would  like  to  see  the  'ouse,  too,  sir.  The  missus  does  not 
like  it  much,  but  I  will  take  'er  your  card,  sir." 
I  gave  him  the  card  and  slipped  a  shilling  into  his  hand 
as  he  gave  me  a  seat  in  the  hallway. 
He  disappeared  upstairs  and  soon  returned  with  the  pleasing 
information  that  I  was  to  be  shown  the  whole  house  and 
garden.  So  I  pardoned  him  the  myth  about  the  missus, 
happening  to  know  that  at  that  particular  moment  she  was 
at  Brighton,  sixty  miles  away. 

A  goodly,  comfortable  house,  four  stories,  well  kept,  and 
much  fine  old  carved  oak  in  the  dining-room  and  hallways ; 
fantastic  ancient  balusters,  and  a  peculiar  bay  window  in 
the  second-story  rear  that  looked  out  over  the  little  garden. 
Off  to  the  North  could  be  seen  the  green  of  Kensington 
Gardens  and  wavy  suggestions  of  Hyde  Park.  This  was 
George  Eliot's  workshop.  There  was  a  table  in  the  center 
of  the  room  and  three  low  bookcases  with  pretty  ornaments 
above.  In  the  bay  window  was  the  most  conspicuous  object 
in  the  room — a  fine  marble  bust  of  Goethe  «jt  This,  I  was 
assured,  had  been  the  property  of  Mrs.  Cross,  as  well  as 
all  the  books  and  furniture  in  the  room.  In  one  corner  was 
a  revolving  case  containing  a  set  of  the  "Century  Dictionary" 
which  Jeemes  assured  me  had  been  purchased  by  Mr.  Cross 
as  a  present  for  his  wife  a  short  time  before  she  died.  This 
caused  my  faith  to  waver  a  trifle  and  put  to  flight  a  fine  bit 
of  literary  frenzy  that  might  have  found  form  soon  in  a 
sonnet  &  jt 


22 GEORGE     ELIOT 

In  the  front  parlor,  I  saw  a  portrait  of  the  former  occupant 
that  showed  uthe  face  that  looked  like  a  horse."  But  that 
is  better  than  to  have  the  face  of  any  other  animal  of  which 
I  know.  Surely  one  would  not  want  to  look  like  a  dog! 
Shakespeare  hated  dogs,  but  spoke  forty-eight  times  in  his 
plays  in  terms  of  respect  and  affection  for  a  horse.  Who 
would  not  resent  the  imputation  that  one's  face  was  like 
that  of  a  sheep  or  a  goat  or  an  ox,  and  much  gore  has  been 
shed  because  men  have  referred  to  other  men  as  asses — 
but  a  horse!  God  bless  you,  yes! 

No  one  has  ever  accused  George  Eliot  of  being  handsome, 
but  this  portrait  tells  of  a  woman  of  fifty :  calm,  gentle,  and 
the  strong  features  speak  of  a  soul  in  which  to  confide. 
At  Highgate,  by  the  side  of  the  grave  of  Lewes,  rests  the 
dust  of  this  great  and  loving  woman.  As  the  pilgrim  enters 
that  famous  old  cemetery  the  first  imposing  monument  seen 
is  a  pyramid  of  rare,  costly  porphyry.  As  you  draw  near, 
you  read  this  inscription : 

To  the  memory  of 

ANN  JEWSON  CRISP 

Who  departed  this  life 

Deeply  lamented,  Jan.  20,  1889. 

Also, 
Her  dog,  Emperor. 

Beneath  these  tender  lines  is  a  bas-relief  of  as  vicious- 
looking  a  cur  as  ever  evaded  the  dog-tax. 
Continuing  up  the  avenue,  past  this  monument  just  noted, 


GEORGE     ELIOT 23 

the  kind  old  gardener  will  show  you  another  that  stands 
amid  others  much  more  pretentious — a  small  gray-granite 
column,  and  on  it,  carved  in  small  letters,  you  read : 

"Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again  in  minds  made 
better  by  their  presence." 

Here  rests  the  body  of 

"GEORGE  ELIOT" 

(MARY  ANN  CROSS) 
Born  22  November,  1819. 
Died  22  December,  1880. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


NE  comfort  is  that  great  men  taken  up  in  any  way  are  profitable 
company.  We  can  not  look,  however  imperfectly,  upon  a  great 
man  without  gaining  something  by  it.  He  is  the  living  fountain  of 
life,  which  it  is  pleasant  to  be  near.  On  any  terms  whatsoever  you 
will  not  grudge  to  wander  in  his  neighborhood  for  a  while. 

— Heroes  and  Hero- Worship 


THOMAS     CARLYLE 


N  my  way  to  Dumfries  I  stopped  overnight 
at  Gretna  Green,  which,  as  all  fair  maidens 
know,  is  in  Scotland  just  over  the  border 
from  England. 

To  my  delight  I  found  that  the  coming  of 
runaway  couples  to  Gretna  Green  was  not 
entirely  a  matter  of  the  past,  for  the  very 
evening  I  arrived  a  blushing  pair  came  to 
the  inn  and  inquired  for  a  "meenister." 
The  ladye  faire  was  a  little  stout  and  the 
worthy  swain  several  years  older  than  my 
fancy  might  have  wished,  but  still  I  did 
not  complain. 

The  landlord's  boy  was  despatched  to  the 
rectory  around  the  corner  and  soon  returned 
with  the  reverend  gentleman. 
I  was  an  uninvited  guest  in  the  little  parlor, 
but  no  one  observed  that  my  wedding- 
garment  was  only  a  cycling  costume,  and 
I  was  not  challenged. 
After  the  ceremony,  the  several  other  wit- 
nesses filed  past  the  happy  couple,  congrat- 
ulating them  and  kissing  the  bride. 
I  did  likewise,  and  was    greeted   with   a 
resounding  smack  which    surprised  me  a 
bit,  but  I  managed  to  ask,  "Did  you  run 
away?" 

"Noo,"  said  the  groom;  "noo,  her  was  a 
widdie — we  just  coom  over  fram  Eccle- 


30 THOMAS    CARLYLE 

f  echan " ;  then,  lowering  his  voice  to  a  confidential  whisper, 

"We  're  goin'  baack  on  the  morrow.    It 's  cheaper  thaan 

to  ha'  a  big,  spread  weddin'." 

This  answer  banished  all  tender  sentiment  from  me  and 

made  useless  my  plans  for  a  dainty  love-story,  but  I  seized 

upon  the  name  of  the  place  whence  they  came : 

" Ecclef echan !  Ecclef echan!  why  that 's  where  Carlyle  was 

born  I" 

"Aye,  sir,  and  he's  buried  there;  a  great  mon  he  was — 

but  an  infideel." 

Ten  miles  beyond  Gretna  Green   is  Ecclefechan — a  little 

village  of  stucco  houses  all  stretched  out  on  one  street.  Plain, 

homely,  rocky  and  unromantic  is  the  country  round  about, 

and  plain,  homely  and  unromantic  is  the  little  house  where 

Carlyle  was  bora.  The  place  is  shown  the  visitor  by  a  good 

old  dame  who  takes  one  from  room  to  room,  giving  a  little 

lecture  meanwhile  in  a  mixture  of  Gaelic  and  English  which 

was  quite  beyond  my  ken.  Several  relics  of  interest  are  shown, 

and  although  the  house  is  almost  precisely  like  all  others 

in  the  vicinity,  imagination  throws  round  it  all  a  roseate 

wreath  of  fancies. 

It  has  been  left  on  record  that  up  to  the  year  when  Carlyle 

was  married,  his  "most  pleasurable  times  were  those  when 

he  enjoyed  a  quiet  pipe  with  his  mother." 

To  few  men  indeed  is  this  felicity  vouchsafed.  But  for  those 

who  have  eaten  oatmeal  porridge  in  the  wayside  cottages 

of  bonny  Scotland,  or  "who  love  to  linger  over  "The  Cotter's 

Saturday  Night,"  there  is  a  touch  of  tender  pathos  in  the 

picture.  The  stone  floor,  the  bare,  whitewashed  walls,  the 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 31 

peat  smoldering  on  the  hearth,  sending  out  long,  fitful 
streaks  that  dance  among  the  rafters  overhead,  and  the 
mother  and  son  sitting  there  watching  the  coal — silent.  The 
woman  takes  a  small  twig  from  a  bundle  of  sticks,  reaches 
over,  lights  it,  applies  it  to  her  pipe,  takes  a  few  whiffs  and 
passes  the  light  to  her  son.  Then  they  talk  in  low,  earnest 
tones  of  man's  duty  to  man  and  man's  duty  to  God. 
And  it  was  this  mother  who  first  applied  the  spark  that 
fired  Carlyle's  ambition ;  it  was  from  her  that  he  got  the  germ 
of  those  talents  which  have  made  his  name  illustrious. 
Yet  this  woman  could  barely  read  and  did  not  learn  to  write 
until  her  firstborn  had  gone  away  from  the  home  nest.  Then 
it  was  that  she  sharpened  a  gray  goose-quill  and  labored 
long  and  patiently,  practising  with  this  instrument  (said  to 
be  mightier  than  the  sword)  and  with  ink  she  herself  had 
mixed — all  that  she  might  write  a  letter  to  her  boy ;  and  how 
sweetly,  tenderly  homely,  and  loving  are  these  letters  as  we 
read  them  today! 

James  Carlyle  with  his  own  hands  built,  in  Seventeen  Hundred 
Ninety,  this  house  at  Ecclefechan  ^  The  same  year  he 
married  an  excellent  woman,  a  second  cousin,  by  name 
Janet  Carlyle.  She  lived  but  a  year.  The  poor  husband  was 
heartbroken,  and  declared,  as  many  men  under  like  conditions 
had  done  before  and  have  done  since,  that  his  sorrow  was 
inconsolable.  And  he  vowed  that  he  would  walk  through 
life  and  down  to  his  death  alone. 

But  it  is  a  matter  for  congratulation  that  he  broke  his  vow. 
<]j  In  two  years  he  married  Margaret  Aitken — a  serving- 
woman.  She  bore  nine  children.  Thomas  was  the  eldest  and 


32 THOMAS    CARLYLE 

the  only  one  who  proved  recreant  to  the  religious  faith  of  his 
fathers  Jt>  Jt> 

One  of  the  brothers  moved  to  Shiawassee  County,  Michigan, 
where  I  had  the  pleasure  of  calling  on  bun,  some  years  ago. 
A  hard-headed  man,  he  was:  sensible,  earnest,  honest, 
with  a  stubby  beard  and  a  rich  brogue.  He  held  the  office  of 
school  trustee,  also  that  of  poundmaster,  and  I  was  told  that 
he  served  his  township  loyally  and  well. 
This  worthy  man  looked  with  small  favor  on  the  literary 
pretensions  of  his  brother  Tammas,  and  twice  wrote  him 
long  letters  expostulating  with  him  on  his  religious  vagaries. 
"I  knew  no  good  could  come  of  it,"  sorrowfully  said  he, 
and  so  I  left  him. 

But  I  inquired  of  several  of  the  neighbors  what  they  thought 
of  Thomas  Carlyle,  and  I  found  that  they  did  not  think  of 
him  at  all.  And  I  mounted  my  beast  and  rode  away. 
Thomas  Carlyle  was  educated  for  the  Kirk,  and  it  was  a 
cause  of  much  sorrow  to  his  parents  that  he  could  not  accept 
its  beliefs.  He  has  been  spoken  of  as  England's  chief  philoso- 
pher, yet  he  subscribed  to  no  creed,  nor  did  he  formulate 
one.  However,  in  "Latter-Day  Pamphlets"  he  partially 
prepares  a  catechism  for  a  part  of  the  brute  creation. 
He  supposes  that  all  swine  of  superior  logical  powers  have 
a  "belief,"  and  as  they  are  unable  to  express  it  he  essays 
the  task  for  them. 

The  following  are  a  few  of  the  postulates  in  this  creed  of 
The  Brotherhood  of  batter-Day  Swine: 
"Question.  Who  made  the  Pig? 
"Answer.    The  Pork-Butcher. 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 33 

"Question.  What  is  the  Whole  Duty  of  Pigs? 

"Answer.     It  is  the  mission  of  Universal  Pighood;  and  the 

duty  of  all  Pigs,  at  all  times, 'is  to  diminish  the  quantity  of 

attainable  swill  and  increase  the  unattainable.  This  is  the 

Whole  Duty  of  Pigs. 

"Question.  What  is  Pig  Poetry? 

"Answer.     It  is  the  universal  recognition  of  Pig's  wash  and 

ground  barley,  and  the  felicity  of  Pigs  whose  trough  has  been 

set  in  order  and  who  have  enough. 

"Question.  What  is  justice  in  Pig-dom? 

"Answer.     It  is  the  sentiment  in  Pig  nature  sometimes 

called  revenge,  indignation,  etc.,  which  if  one  Pig  provoke, 

another  comes  out  in  more  or  less  destructive  manner ;  hence 

laws  are  necessary — amazing  quantities  of  laws — defining 

what  Pigs  shall  not  do. 

"Question.  What  do  you  mean  by  equity  ? 

"Answer.    Equity  consists  in  getting  your  share  from  the 

Universal  Swine-Trough,  and  part  of  another's. 

"Question.  What  is  meant  by  'your  share'  ? 

"Answer.    My  share  is  getting  whatever  I  can  contrive 

to  seize  without  being  made  up  into  Side-meat. " 

I  have  slightly  abridged  this  little  extract  and  inserted  it  here 

to  show  the  sympathy  which  Mr.  Cariyle  had  for  the  dumb 

brute  jt  «jt 

One  of  America's  great  men,  in  a  speech  delivered  not  long 

ago,  said,  "From   Scotch  manners,   Scotch    religion    and 

Scotch  whisky,  good  Lord  deliver  us!" 

My  experience  with  these  three  articles  has  been  somewhat 

limited ;  but  Scotch  manners  remind  me  of  chestnut-burrs — 


34 THOMAS    CARLYLE 

not  handsome  without,  but  good  within.  For  when  you  have 
gotten  beyond  the  rough  exterior  of  Sandy  you  generally 
find  a  heart  warm,  tender  and  generous. 
Scotch  religion  is  only  another  chestnut-burr,  but  then  you 
need  not  eat  the  shuck  if  you  fear  it  will  not  agree  with  your 
inward  state.  Nevertheless,  if  the  example  of  royalty  is  of 
value,  the  fact  can  be  stated  that  Victoria,  Queen  of  Great 
Britain  and  Empress  of  India,  is  a  Presbyterian.  That  is,  she 
is  a  Presbyterian  about  one-half  the  time — when  she  is  in 
Scotland,  for  she  is  the  head  of  the  Scottish  Kirk.  When  in 
England,  of  course  she  is  an  Episcopalian.  We  have  often 
been  told  that  religion  is  largely  a  matter  of  geography,  and 
here  is  a  bit  of  something  that  looks  like  proof. 
Of  Scotch  whisky  I  am  not  competent  to  speak,  so  that 
subject  must  be  left  to  the  experts.  But  a  Kentucky  colonel 
at  my  elbow  declares  that  it  can  not  be  compared  with  the 
Blue-Grass  article ;  though  I  trust  that  no  one  will  be  preju- 
diced against  it  on  that  account. 

Scotch  intellect,  however,  is  worthy  of  our  serious  considera- 
tion. It  is  a  bold,  rocky  headland,  standing  out  into  the 
tossing  sea  of  the  Unknown.  Assertive?  Yes.  Stubborn?  Most 
surely.  Proud?  By  all  means.  Twice  as  many  pilgrims  visit 
the  grave  of  Burns  as  that  of  Shakespeare.  Buckle  declares 
Adam  Smith's  "Wealth  of  Nations"  has  had  a  greater 
influence  on  civilization  than  any  other  book  ever  writ — 
save  none;  and  the  average  Scotchman  knows  his  Carlyle 
a  deal  better  than  the  average  American  does  his  Emerson: 
in  fact,  four  times  as  many  of  Carlyle's  books  have  been 
printed  jt  jt 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 35 

When  Carlyle  took  time  to  bring  the  ponderous  machinery 
of  his  intellect  to  bear  on  a  theme,  he  saw  it  through  and 
through.  The  vividness  of  his  imagination  gives  us  a  true 
insight  into  times  long  since  gone  by ;  it  shows  virtue  her 
own  feature,  vice  her  own  image,  and  the  very  age  and  body 
of  the  time  his  form  and  pressure.  In  history  he  goes  beyond 
the  political  and  conventional — showing  us  the  thought, 
the  hope,  the  fear,  the  passion  of  the  soul. 
His  was  the  masculine  mind.  The  divination  and  subtle 
intuitions  which  are  to  be  found  scattered  through  his  pages, 
like  violets  growing  among  the  rank  swale  of  the  prairies, 
all  these  sweet,  odorous  things  came  from  his  wife.  She  gave 
him  of  her  best  thought  and  he  greedily  absorbed  it  and 
unconsciously  wrote  it  down  as  his  own. 
There  are  those  who  blame  and  berate:  volumes  have  been 
written  to  show  the  inconsiderateness  of  this  man  toward 
the  gentle  lady  who  was  his  intellectual  comrade.  But  they 
know  not  life  who  do  this  thing. 

It  is  a  fact  that  Carlyle  never  rushed  to  pick  up  Jeannie's 
handkerchief.  I  admit  that  he  could  not  bow  gracefully ;  that 
he  could  not  sing  tenor,  nor  waltz,  nor  tell  funny  stories, 
nor  play  the  mandolin;  and  if  I  had  been  his  neighbor  I 
would  not  have  attempted  to  teach  him  any  of  these  accom- 
plishments Jt  Jt> 

Once  he  took  his  wife  to  the  theater;  and  after  the  per- 
formance he  accidentally  became  separated  from  her  in  the 
crowd  and  trudged  off  home  alone  and  went  to  bed  forgetting 
all  about  her — but  even  for  this  I  do  not  indict  him.  Mrs. 
Carlyle  never  upbraided  him  for  this  forgetfulness,  neither 


36 THOMAS    CARLYLE 

did  she  relate  the  incident  to  any  one,  and  for  these  things  I 
to  her  now  reverently  lift  my  hat. 

Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle  had  capacity  for  pain,  as  it  seems  all 
great  souls  have.  She  suffered — but  then  suffering  is  not  all 
suffering  and  pain  is  not  all  pain. 

Life  is  often  dark,  but  then  there  are  rifts  in  the  clouds  when 
we  behold  the  glorious  deep  blue  of  the  sky.  Not  a  day  passes 
but  that  the  birds  sing  in  the  branches,  and  the  tree-tops 
poise  backward  and  forward  in  restful,  rhythmic  harmony, 
and  never  an  hour  goes  by  but  that  hope  bears  us  up  on  her 
wings  as  the  eagle  does  her  young.  And  ever  just  before  the 
year  dies  and  the  frost  comes,  the  leaves  take  on  a  gorgeous 
hue  and  the  color  of  the  flowers  then  puts  to  shame  for 
brilliancy  all  the  plainer  petals  of  springtime. 
And  I  know  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carlyle  were  happy,  so  happy,  at 
times,  that  they  laughed  and  cried  for  joy.  Jeannie  gave 
all  and  she  saw  her  best  thought  used — carried  further, 
written  out  and  given  to  the  world  as  that  of  another — but 
she  uttered  no  protest. 

Xantippe  lives  in  history  only  because  she  sought  to  worry 
a  great  philosopher;  we  remember  the  daughter  of  Herodias 
because  she  demanded  the  head  (not  the  heart)  of  a  good 
man ;  Goneril  and  Regan  because  they  trod  upon  the  withered 
soul  of  their  sire;  Lady  Macbeth  because  she  lured  her 
liege  to  murder;  Charlotte  Corday  for  her  dagger-thrust; 
Lucrezia  Bofgia  for  her  poison;  Sapphira  for  her  untruth; 
Jael  because  she  pierced  the  brain  of  Sisera  with  a  rusty  nail 
(instead  of  an  idea) ;  Delilah  for  the  reason  that  she  deprived 
Samson  of  his  source  of  strength ;  and  in  the  "  Westminster 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 37 

Review"  for  May,  Eighteen  Hundred  Ninety-four,  Ouida 
makes  the  flat  statement  that  for  every  man  of  genius  who 
has  been  helped  by  a  woman,  ten  have  been  dragged  down. 
<J  But  Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle  lives  in  the  hearts  of  all  who 
reverence  the  sweet,  the  gentle,  the  patient,  the  earnest,  the 
loving  spirit  of  the  womanly  woman:  lives  because  she 
ministered  to  the  needs  of  a  great  man. 
She  was  ever  a  frail  body.  Several  long  illnesses  kept  her  to 
her  bed  for  weeks,  but  she  recovered  from  these,  even  in 
spite  of  the  doctors,  who  thoroughly  impressed  both  herself 
and  her  husband  with  the  thought  of  her  frailty. 
On  April  the  Twenty-first,  Eighteen  Hundred  Sixty-six,  she 
called  her  carriage,  as  was  her  custom,  and  directed  the 
driver  to  go  through  the  park.  She  carried  a  book  in  her 
hands,  and  smiled  a  greeting  to  a  friend  as  the  brougham 
moved  away  from  the  little  street  where  they  lived.  The 
driver  drove  slowly — drove  for  an  hour — two.  He  got  down 
from  his  box  to  receive  the  orders  of  his  mistress,  touched 
his  hat  as  he  opened  the  carriage-door,  but  no  kindly  eyes 
looked  into  his.  She  sat  back  in  the  corner  as  if  resting ;  the 
shapely  head  a  little  thrown  forward,  the  book  held  gently 
in  the  delicate  hands,  but  the  fingers  were  cold  and  stiff — 
Jeannie  Welsh  was  dead — and  Thomas  Carlyle  was  alone. 


38  THOMAS    CARLYLE 


the  Thames,  at  Chelsea,  opposite  the  rows  of 
quiet  and  well-kept  houses  of  Cheyne  Walk,  is  the 
"Embankment."  A  parkway  it  is  of  narrow  green, 
with  graveled  walks,  bushes  and  trees,  that  here  and  there 
grow  lush  and  lusty  as  if  to  hide  the  unsightly  river  from 
the  good  people  who  live  across  the  street. 
Following  this  pleasant  bit  of  breathing  space,  with  its  walks 
that  wind  in  and  out  among  the  bushes,  one  comes  unexpect- 
edly upon  a  bronze  statue.  You  need  not  read  the  inscription  : 
a  glance  at  that  shaggy  head,  the  grave,  sober,  earnest  look, 
and  you  exclaim  under  your  breath,  "Carlyle!" 
In  this  statue  the  artist  has  caught  with  rare  skill  the  look 
of  reverie  and  repose.  One  can  imagine  that  on  a  certain 
night,  as  the  mists  and  shadows  of  evening  were  gathering 
along  the  dark  river,  the  gaunt  form,  wrapped  in  its 
accustomed  cloak,  came  stalking  down  the  little  street  to  the 
park,  just  as  he  did  thousands  of  times,  and  taking  his  seat 
in  the  big  chair  fell  asleep.  In  the  morning  the  children  that 
came  to  play  along  the  river  found  the  form  in  cold,  enduring 
bronze  jfc  ^t 

At  the  play  we  have  seen  the  marble  transformed  by  love 
into  beauteous  life.  How  much  easier  the  reverse  —  here 
where  souls  stay  only  a  day! 

Cheyne  Row  is  a  little,  alley-like  street,  running  only  a  block, 
with  fifteen  houses  on  one  side,  and  twelve  on  the  other. 
Cf  These  houses  are  all  brick  and  built  right  up  to  the  side- 
walk. On  the  North  side  they  are  all  hi  one  block,  and  one  at 
first  sees  no  touch  of  individuality  in  any  of  them. 
They  are  old,  and  solid,  and  plain  —  built  for  revenue  only.  On 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 39 

closer  view  I  thought  one  or  two  had  been  painted,  and  on 
one  there  was  a  cornice  that  set  it  off  from  the  rest.  As  I 
stood  on  the  opposite  side  and  looked  at  this  row  of  houses,  I 
observed  that  Number  Five  was  the  dingiest  and  plainest  of 
them  all.  For  there  were  dark  shutters  instead  of  blinds,  and 
these  shutters  were  closed,  all  save  one  rebel  that  swung  and 
creaked  in  the  breeze.  Over  the  doorway,  sparrows  had  made 
their  nests  and  were  fighting  and  scolding.  Swallows  hovered 
above  the  chimney;  dust,  cobwebs,  neglect  were  all  about. 
<J  And  as  I  looked  there  came  to  me  the  words  of  Ursa 
Thomas : 

"Brief,  brawling  day,  with  its  noisy  phantoms,  its  paper 
crowns,  tinsel-gilt,  is  gone;  and  divine,  everlasting  night, 
with  her  star  diadems,  with  her  silences  and  her  verities,  is 
come. " 

Here  walked  Thomas  and  Jeannie  one  fair  May  morning  in 
Eighteen  Hundred  Thirty-four  jfc  Thomas  was  thirty-nine, 
tall  and  swarthy,  strong ;  with  set  mouth  and  three  wrinkles 
on  his  forehead  that  told  of  care  and  dyspepsia.  Jeannie  was 
younger;  her  face  winsome,  just  a  trifle  anxious,  with 
luminous,  gentle  eyes,  suggestive  of  patience,  truth  and 
loyalty.  They  looked  like  country  folks,  did  these  two.  They 
examined  the  surroundings,  consulted  together — the  sixty 
pounds  rent  a  year  seemed  very  high!  But  they  took  the 
house,  and  T.  Carlyle,  son  of  James  Carlyle,  stone-mason, 
paid  rent  for  it  every  month  for  half  a  century,  lacking  three 
years  &  Jt> 

I  walked  across  the  street  and  read  the  inscription  on  the 
marble  tablet  inserted  in  the  front  of  the  house  above  the 


40 THOMAS    CARJLYLE 

lower  windows.  It  informs  the  stranger  that  Thomas  Carlyle 

lived  here  from  Eighteen  Hundred  Thirty-four  to  Eighteen 

Hundred  Eighty-one,  and  that  the  tablet  was  erected  by 

the  Carlyle  Society  of  London. 

I  ascended  the  stone  steps  and  scraped  my  boots  on  the 

well-worn  scraper,  made  long,  long  ago  by  a  blacksmith  who 

is  now  dust,  and  who  must  have  been  a  very  awkward 

mechanic,  for  I  saw  where  he  made  a  misstroke  with  his 

hammer,  probably  as  he  discussed  theology  with  a  caller. 

Then  I  rang  the  bell  and  plied  the  knocker  and  waited  there 

on  the  steps  for  Jeannie  Welsh  to  come  bid  me  welcome,  just 

as  she  did  Emerson  when  he,  too,  used  the  scraper  and  plied 

the  knocker  and  stood  where  I  did  then. 

And  my  knock  was  answered — answered  by  a  very  sour  and 

peevish  woman  next  door,  who  thrust  her  head  out  of  the 

window,  and  exclaimed  in  a  shrill  voice: 

"Look  'ere,  sir,  you  might  as  well  go  rap  on  the  curbstone, 

don't  you  know ;  there  's  nobody  iivin'  there,  sir,  don't  you 

knowl" 

"Yes,  madam,  that  is  why  I  knocked!" 

"Beggin'  your  pardon,  sir,  if  you  use  your  heyes  you  '11 

see  there  's  nobody  Iivin'  there,  don't  you  know ! " 

"I  knocked  lest  offense  be  given.  How  can  I  get  in  ?" 

"You  might  go  in  through  the  keyhole,  sir,  or  down  the 

chimney.  You  seem  to  be  a  little  daft,  sir,  don't  you  know ! 

But  if  you  raust  get  in,  perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  to  go 

over  to  Mrs.  Brown's  and  brang  the  key, "  and  she  slammed 

down  the  window. 

Across  the  street  Mrs.  Brown's  sign  smiled  at  me. 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 41 

Mrs.  Brown  keeps  a  little  grocery  and  bakeshop  and  was 
very  willing  to  show  me  the  house.  She  fumbled  in  a  black 
bag  for  the  keys,  all  the  time  telling  me  of  three  Americans 
who  came  last  week  to  see  Carlyle's  house,  and  "as  how" 
they  each  gave  her  a  shilling.  I  took  the  hint. 
"Only  Americans  care  now  for  Mr.  Carlyle,"  plaintively 
added  the  old  lady  as  she  fished  out  the  keys;  "soon  we  will 
all  be  forgot." 

We  walked  across  the  street  and  after  several  ineffectual 
attempts  the  rusty  lock  was  made  to  turn.  I  entered.  Cold, 
bare  and  bleak  was  the  sight  of  those  empty  rooms.  The  old 
lady  had  a  touch  of  rheumatism,  so  she  waited  for  me  on  the 
doorstep  as  I  climbed  the  stairs  to  the  third  floor.  The 
noise-proof  back  room  where  "  The  French  Revolution"  was 
writ,  twice  over,  was  so  dark  that  I  had  to  grope  my  way 
across  to  the  window.  The  sash  stuck  and  seemed  to  have 
a  will  of  its  own,  like  him  who  so  often  had  raised  it.  But 
at  last  it  gave  way  and  I  flung  wide  the  shutter  and  looked 
down  at  the  little  arbor  where  Teufelsdrockh  sat  so  often 
and  wooed  wisdom  with  the  weed  brought  from  Virginia. 
Then  I  stood  before  the  fireplace,  where  he  of  the  Eternities 
had  so  often  sat  and  watched  the  flickering  embers.  Here  he 
lived  in  his  loneliness  and  cursed  curses  that  were  prayers, 
and  here  for  near  five  decades  he  read  and  thought  and 
dreamed  and  wrote.  Here  the  spirits  of  Cromwell  and 
Frederick  hovered;  here  that  pitiful  and  pitiable  long  line 
of  ghostly  partakers  in  the  Revolution  answered  to  his 
roll-call. 
The  wind  whistled  down  the  chimney  gruesomely  as  my 


42 THOMAS    CARLYJLE 

footfalls  echoed  through  the  silent  chambers,  and  I  thought 
I  heard  a  sepulchral  voice  say: 

"Thy  future  life!  Thy  fate  is  it,  indeed!  Whilst  thou  makest 
that  thy  chief  question,  thy  life  to  me  and  to  thyself  and  to 
thy  God  is  worthless.  What  is  incredible  to  thee  thou  shalt 
not,  at  thy  soul's  peril,  pretend  to  believe.  Elsewhither  for  a 
refuge !  Away  I  Go  to  perdition  if  thou  wilt,  but  not  with  a  lie 
in  thy  mouth — by  the  Eternal  Maker,  No ! ! " 
I  was  startled  at  first,  but  stood  still  listening ;  then  I  thought 
I  saw  a  fault  blue  cloud  of  mist  curling  up  in  the  fireplace. 
Watching  this  smoke  and  sitting  before  it  in  gloomy 
abstraction  was  the  form  of  an  old  man.  I  swept  my  hand 
through  the  apparition,  but  still  it  stayed.  My  lips  moved  in 
spite  of  myself  and  I  said: 

"Hail!  hardheaded  man  of  granite  outcrop  and  heather,  of 
fen  and  crag,  of  moor  and  mountain,  and  of  bleak  East  wind, 
hail!  Eighty-six  years  didst  thou  live.  One  hundred  years 
lacking  fourteen  didst  thou  suffer,  enjoy,  weep,  dream,  groan, 
pray  and  strike  thy  rugged  breast  i  And  yet  methinks  that  in 
those  years  there  was  much  quiet  peace  and  sweet  content ; 
for  constant  pain  benumbs,  and  worry  destroys,  and  vain 
unrest  summons  the  grim  messenger  of  death.  But  thou 
didst  live  and  work  and  love;  howbeit,  thy  touch  was  not 
always  gentle,  nor  thy  voice  low ;  but  on  thy  lips  was  no  lie, 
in  thy  thought  no  concealment,  in  thy  heart  no  pollution. 
<J "But  m*ark!  thou  didst  come  out  of  poverty  and  obscurity: 
on  thy  battered  shield  there  was  no  crest  and  thou  didst 
leave  all  to  follow  truth.  And  verily  she  did  lead  thee  a 
merry  chase! 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 43 

"Thou  hadst  no  Past,  but  them  hast  a  Future.  Thou  didst 
say:  'Bury  me  in  Westminster,  never!  where  the  mob  surges, 
cursed  with  idle  curiosity  to  see  the  graves  of  kings  and 
nobodies?  No !  Take  me  back  to  rugged  Scotland  and  lay  my 
tired  form  to  rest  by  the  side  of  an  honest  man — my  father. ' 
"Thou  didst  refuse  the  Knighthood  offered  thee  by  royalty, 
saying  'I  am  not  the  founder  of  the  house  of  Carlyle  and  I 
have  no  sons  to  be  pauperized  by  a  title.' 
"True,  thou  didst  leave  no  sons  after  the  flesh  to  mourn  thy 
loss,  nor  fair  daughters  to  bedeck  thy  grave  with  garlands, 
but  thou  didst  reproduce  thyself  in  thought,  and  on  the  minds 
of  men  thou  didst  leave  thy  impress.  And  thy  ten  thousand 
sons  will  keep  thy  memory  green  so  long  as  men  shall  work, 
and  toil,  and  strive,  and  hope. " 

The  wind  still  howled.  I  looked  out  and  saw  watery  clouds 
scudding  athwart  the  face  of  the  murky  sky.  The  shutters 
banged,  and  shut  me  in  the  dark.  I  made  haste  to  find  the 
door,  reached  the  stairway — slid  down  the  banisters  to  where 
Mrs.  Brown  was  waiting  for  me  at  the  threshold. 
We  locked  the  door.  She  went  across  to  her  little  bakeshop 
and  I  stopped  a  passing  policeman  to  ask  the  way  to  West- 
minster. He  told  me. 

"Did  you  visit  Carlyle's  'ouse?"  he  asked. 
"Yes." 

"With  old  Mrs.  Brown?" 

"Yes,  she  waited  for  me  in  the  doorway — she  had    the 
rheumatism  so  she  could  not  climb  the  stairs. " 
"Rheumatism?  Huh! — you  couldn't  'ire  'er  to  go  inside. 
Why,  don't  you  know?  They  say  the  'ouse  is    'aunted!" 


JOHN        RUSKIN 


PUT  roses  in  their  hair,  put  precious  stones  on  their  breasts ;  see 
that  they  are  clothed  in  purple  and  scarlet,  with  other  delights ; 
that  they  also  learn  to  read  the  gilded  heraldry  of  the  sky;  and  upon 
the  earth  be  taught  not  only  the  labors  of  it  but  the  loveliness. 

— Deucalion 


JOHN  RUSKIN 


JOHN     RUSKIN 


|T  Windermere  a  good  friend  told  me  that 
I  must  abandon  all  hope  of  seeing  Mr. 
Ruskin;  for  I  had  no  special  business  with 
him,  no  letters  of  introduction,  and  then 
the  fact  that  I  am  an  American  made  it 
final.  Americans  in  England  are  supposed 
to  pick  flowers  in  private  gardens,  cut  their 
names  on  trees,  laugh  boisterously  at  trifles, 
and  often  to  make  invidious  comparisons. 
Very  properly,  Mr.  Ruskin  does  not  admire 
these  things. 

Then  Mr.  Ruskin  is  a  very  busy  man.  Occa- 
sionally he  issues  a  printed  manifesto  to  his 
friends  requesting  them  to  give  him  peace. 
A  copy  of  one  such  circular  was  shown  to 
me.  It  runs,  "Mr.  J.  Ruskin  is  about  to 
begin  a  work  of  great  importance,  and 
therefore  begs  that  in  reference  to  calls  and 
correspondence  you  will  consider  bun  dead 
for  the  next  two  months. "  A  similar  notice 
is  reproduced  in  "Arrows  of  the  Chace," 
and  this  one  thing,  I  think,  illustrates  as 
forcibly  as  anything  hi  Mr.  Ruskin's  work 
the  self-contained  characteristics  of  the 
man  himself. 

Surely  if  a  man  is  pleased  to  be  considered 
"dead"  occasionally,  even  to  his  kinsmen 
and  friends,  he  should  not  be  expected  to 
receive  with  open  arms  an  enemy  to  steal 


So JOHN      RUSKIN 

away  his  time.  This  is  assuming,  of  course,  that  all  individuals 
who  pick  flowers  in  other  folks'  gardens,  cut  their  names  on 
trees,  and  laugh  boisterously  at  trifles,  are  enemies.  I  there- 
fore decided  that  I  would  simply|walk  over  to  Brantwood, 
view  it  from  a  distance,  tramp  over  its  hills,  row  across  the 
lake,  and  at  nightfall  take  a  swim  in  its  waters.  Then  I 
would  rest  at  the  Inn  for  a  space  and  go  my  way. 
Lake  Coniston  is  ten  miles  from  Grasmere,  and  even  alone  the 
walk  is  not  long.  If,  however,  you  are  delightfully  attended 
by  "King's  Daughters"  with  whom  you  sit  and  commune 
now  and  then  on  the  bankside,  the  distance  will  seem  to 
be  much  less.  Then  there  is  a  pleasant  little  break  in  the 
journey  at  Hawkshead.  Here  one  may  see  the  quaint  old 
schoolhouse  where  Wordsworth  when  a  boy  dangled  his  feet 
from  a  bench  and  proved  his  humanity  by  carving  his  initials 
on  the  seat. 

The  Inn  at  the  head  of  Coniston  Water  appeared  very  inviting 
and  restful  when  I  saw  it  that  afternoon.  Built  in  sections 
from  generation  to  generation,  half-covered  with  ivy  and 
embowered  in  climbing  roses,  it  is  an  institution  entirely 
different  from  the  "Grand  Palace  Hotel"  at  Oshkosh.  In 
America  we  have  gongs  that  are  fiercely  beaten  at  stated 
times  by  gentlemen  of  color,  just  as  they  are  supposed  to  do 
in  their  native  Congo  jungles.  This  din  proclaims  to  the 
"guests"  and  to  the  public  at  large  that  it  is  time  to  come  in 
and  be  fed.  But  this  refinement  of  civilization  is  not  yet  in 
Coniston,  and  the  Inn  is  quiet  and  homelike.  You  may  go  to 
bed  when  you  are  tired,  get  up  when  you  choose  and  eat 
when  you  are  hungry. 


JOHN     RUSKIN 51 

There  were  no  visitors  about  when  I  arrived  and  I  thought  I 

would  have  the  coff eeroom  all  to  myself  at  luncheon-time ; 

but  presently  there  came  in  a  pleasant-faced  old  gentleman 

in  knickerbockers.  He  bowed  to  me  and  then  took  a  place  at 

the  table.  He  said  that  it  was  a  fine  day  and  I  agreed  with 

him,  adding  that  the  mountains  were  very  beautiful.  He 

assented,  putting  in  a  codicil  to  the  effect  that  the  lake  was 

very  pretty. 

Then  the  waiter  came  for  our  orders. 

"Together,  I  s'pose?"  remarked  Thomas,  inquiringly,  as  he 

halted  at  the  door  and  balanced  the  tray  on  his  finger-tips. 

<J"Yes,  serve  lunch  for  us  together,"  said  the  ruddy  old 

gentleman  as  he  looked  at  me  and  smiled;  "to  eat  alone  is 

bad  for  the  digestion. " 

I  nodded  assent. 

"Can  you  tell  me  how  far  it  is  to  Brantwood?  "  I  asked. 

"Oh,  not  far — just  across  the  lake." 

He  arose  and  flung  the  shutter  open  so  I  could  see  the  old, 

yellow  house  about  a  mile  across  the  water,  nestling  in  its 

wealth  of  green  on  the  hillside.  Soon  the  waiter  brought  our 

lunch,  and  while  we  discussed  the  chops  and  new  potatoes 

we  talked  Ruskiniana. 

The  old  gentleman  knew  a  deal  more  of  "Stones  of  Venice" 

and  "Modern  Painters"  than  I;  but  I  told  him  how  Thoreau 

introduced  Ruskin  to  America  and  how  Concord  was  the 

first  place  in  the  New  World  to  recognize  this  star  in  the 

East.  And  upon  my  saying  this,  the  old  gentleman  brought 

his  knife-handle  down  on^the  table,  declaring  that  Thoreau 

and  Whitman  were  the  only  two  men  of  genius  that  America 


52 JOHN     RUSKIN 

had  produced.  I  begged  him  to  make  it  three  and  include 

Emerson,  which  he  finally  consented  to  do. 

By  and  by  the  waiter  cleared  the  table  preparatory  to  bringing 

in  the  coffee.  The  old  gentleman  pushed  his  chair  back,  took 

the  napkin  from  under  his  double  chin,  brushed  the  crumbs 

from  his  goodly  front,  and  remarked : 

"I  'm  going  over  to  Brantwood  this  afternoon  to  call  on 

Mr.  Ruskin — just  to  pay  my  respects  to  him,  as  I  always  do 

when  I  come  here.  Can't  you  go  with  me?" 

I  think  this  was  about  the  most  pleasing  question  I  ever  had 

asked  me.  I  was  going  to  request  him  to  "come  again"  just 

for  the  joy  of  hearing  the  words,  but  I  pulled  my  dignity 

together,  straightened  up,  swallowed    my  coffee  red-hot, 

pushed  my  chair  back,  flourished  my  napkin,  and  said:  "I 

shall  be  very  pleased  to  go." 

So  we  went — we  two — he  in  his  knickerbockers  and  I  in  my 

checks  and  outing-shirt.  I  congratulated  myself  on  looking 

no  worse  than  he,  and  as  for  him,  he  never  seemed  to  think 

that  our  costumes  were  not  exactly  what  they  should  be ;  and 

after  all  it  matters  little  how  you  dress  when  you  call  on  one 

of  Nature's  noblemen — they  demand  no  livery. 

We  walked  around  the  Northern  end  of  Coniston  Water, 

along  the  Eastern  edge,  past  Tent  House,  where  Tennyson 

once  lived  (and  found  it  "outrageous  quiet"),  and  a  mile 

farther  on  we  came  to  Brantwood. 

The  road  curves  in  to  the  back  of  the  house — which,  by  the 

way,  is  the  front — and  the  driveway  is  lined  with  great  trees 

that  form  a  complete  archway.  There  is  no  lodge-keeper,  no 

flower-beds  laid  out  with    square  and  compass,  no  trees 


JOHN     RUSKIN 53 

trimmed  to  appear  like  elephants,  no  cast-iron  dogs,  nor 
terra-cotta  deer,  and,  strangest  of  all,  no  sign  of  the  lawn- 
mower.  There  is  nothing,  in  fact,  to  give  forth  a  sign  that  the 
great  Apostle  of  Beauty  lives  in  this  very  old-fashioned  spot. 
Big  boulders  are  to  be  seen  here  and  there  where  Nature 
left  them,  tangles  of  vines  running  over  old  stumps,  part  of 
the  meadow  cut  close  with  a  scythe,  and  part  growing  up  as 
if  the  owner  knew  the  price  of  hay.  Then  there  are  flower- 
beds, where  grow  clusters  of  poppies  and  hollyhocks  (purple, 
and  scarlet,  and  white),  prosaic  gooseberry-bushes,  plain 
Yankee  pieplant  (from  which  the  English  make  tarts),  rue 
and  sweet  marjoram,  with  patches  of  fennel,  sage,  thyme 
and  catnip,  all  lined  off  with  boxwood,  making  me  think  of 
my  grandmother's  garden  at  Roxbury. 
On  the  hillside  above  the  garden  we  saw  the  entrance  to  the 
cave  that  Mr.  Ruskin  once  filled  with  ice,  just  to  show  the 
world  how  to  keep  its  head  cool  at  small  expense.  He  even 
wrote  a  letter  to  the  papers  giving  the  bright  idea  to  humanity 
— that  the  way  to  utilize  caves  was  to  fill  them  with  ice.  Then 
he  forgot  all  about  the  matter.  But  the  following  June,  when 
the  cook,  wishing  to  make  some  ice-cream  as  a  glad  surprise 
for  the  Sunday  dinner,  opened  the  natural  ice-chest,  she 
found  only  a  pool  of  muddy  water,  and  exclaimed,  "Bothera- 
tion!" Then  they  had  custard  instead  of  ice-cream. 
We  walked  up  the  steps,  and  my  friend  let  the  brass  knocker 
drop  just  once,  for  only  Americans  give  a  rat-a-tat-tat,  and 
the  door  was  opened  by  a  white-whiskered  butler,  who  took 
our  cards  and  ushered  us  into  the  library.  My  heart  beat  a 
trifle  fast  as  I  took  inventory  of  the  room ;  for  I  never  before 


54 JOHN     RUSKIN 

had  called  on  a  man  who  was  believed  to  have  refused  the 
poet-laureateship.  A  dimly  lighted  room  was  this  library — 
walls  painted  brown,  running  up  to  mellow  yellow  at  the 
ceiling,  high  bookshelves,  with  a  stepladder,  and  only  five 
pictures  on  the  walls,  and  of  these  three  were  etchings,  and 
two  water-colors  of  a  very  simple  sort;  leather-covered 
chairs;  a  long  table  in  the  center,  on  which  were  strewn 
sundry  magazines  and  papers,  also  several  photographs ;  and 
at  one  end  of  the  room  a  big  fireplace,  where  a  yew  log 
smoldered.  Here  my  inventory  was  cut  short  by  a  cheery 
voice  behind: 

"Ah!  now,  gentlemen,  I  am  glad  to  see  you." 
There  was  no  time  nor  necessity  for  a  formal  introduction. 
The  great  man  took  my  hand  as  if  he  had  always  known  me, 
as  perhaps  he  thought  he  had.  Then  he  greeted  my  friend  in 
the  same  way,  stirred  up  the  fire,  for  it  was  a  North  of  Eng- 
land summer  day,  and  took  a  seat  by  the  table.  We  were  all 
silent  for  a  space — a  silence  without  embarrassment. 
"You  were  looking  at  the  etching  over  the  fireplace — it  was 
sent  to  me  by  a  young  lady  in  America, "  said  Mr.  Ruskin, 
"and  I  placed  it  there  to  get  acquainted  with  it.  I  like  it 
more  and  more.  Do  you  know  the  scene?  "  I  knew  the  scene 
and  explained  somewhat  about  it. 

Mr.  Ruskin  has  the  faculty  of  making  his  interviewer  do 
most  of  the  talking.  He  is  a  rare  listener,  and  leans  forward, 
putting  a  hand  behind  his  right  ear  to  get  each  word  you 
say.  He  was  particularly  interested  in  the  industrial  condi- 
tions of  America,  and  I  soon  found  myself  "occupying  the 
time,"  while  an  occasional  word  of  interrogation  from 


JOHN     RUSKIN 55 

Mr.  Ruskin  gave  me  no  chance  to  stop.  I  came  to  hear  him, 
not  to  defend  our  " republican  experiment, "  as  he  was  pleased 
to  call  the  United  States  of  America.  Yet  Mr.  Ruskin  was  so 
gentle  and  respectful  in  his  manner,  and  so  complimentary  in 
his  attitude  of  listener,  that  my  impatience  at  his  want  of 
sympathy  for  our  "experiment"  only  caused  me  to  feel  a 
little  heated. 

"The  fact  of  women  being  elected  to  mayoralties  in  Kansas 
makes  me  think  of  certain  African  tribes  that  exalt  their 
women  into  warriors — you  want  your  women  to  fight  your 
political  battles!" 

"You  evidently  hold  the  same  opinion  on  the  subject  of 
equal  rights  that  you  expressed  some  years  ago, "  interposed 
my  companion. 

"What  did  I  say— really  I  have  forgotten?" 
"You  replied  to  a  correspondent,  saying:  'You  are  certainly 
right  as  to  my  views  respecting  the  female  franchise.  So  far 
from  wishing  to  give  votes  to  women,  I  would  fain  take 
them  away  from  most  men. ' " 

"Surely  that  was  a  sensible  answer.  My  respect  for  woman 
is  too  great  to  force  on  her  increased  responsibilities.  Then 
as  for  restricting  the  franchise  with  men,  I  am  of  the  firm 
conviction  that  no  man  should  be  allowed  to  vote  who  does 
not  own  property,  or  who  can  not  do  considerably  more  than 
read  and  write.  The  voter  makes  the  laws,  and  why  should 
the  laws  regulating  the  holding  of  property  be  made  by  a  man 
who  has  no  interest  in  property  beyond  a  covetous  desire ;  or 
why  should  he  legislate  on  education  when  he  possesses  none ! 
Then  again,  women  do  not  bear  arms  to  protect  the  State. " 


56 JOHN      RUSKIN 

"But  what  do  you  say  to  Mrs.  Carlock,  who  answers  that 
inasmuch  as  men  do  not  bear  children  they  have  no  right  to 
vote:  going  to  war  possibly  being  necessary  and  possibly 
not,  but  the  perpetuity  of  the  State  demanding  that  some 
one  bear  children?" 

"The  lady's  argument  is  ingenious,  but  lacks  force  when  we 
consider  that  the  bearing  of  arms  is  a  matter  relating  to 
statecraft,  while  the  baby  question  is  Dame  Nature's  own, 
and  is  not  to  be  regulated  even  by  the  sovereign. " 
Then  Mr.  Ruskin  talked  for  nearly  fifteen  minutes  on  the 
duty  of  the  State  to  the  individual — talked  very  deliberately, 
but  with  the  clearness  and  force  of  a  man  who  believes  what 
he  says  and  says  what  he  believes. 

Thus,  my  friend,  by  a  gentle  thrust  under  the  fifth  rib  of 
Mr,  Ruskin's  logic,  caused  him  to  come  to  the  rescue  of  his 
previously  expressed  opinions,  and  we  had  the  satisfaction 
of  hearing  him  discourse  earnestly  and  eloquently. 
Maiden  ladies  usually  have  an  opinion  ready  on  the  subject 
of  masculine  methods,  and,  conversely,  much  of  the  world's 
logic  on  the  "woman  question"  has  come  from  the  bachelor 
brain  ,$t  ^t 

Mr.  Ruskin  went  quite  out  of  his  way  on  several  occasions 
in  times  past  to  attack  John  Stuart  Mill  for  heresy  "in 
opening  up  careers  for  women  other  than  that  of  wife  and 
mother. "  When  Mill  did  not  answer  Mr.  Ruskin's  newspaper 
letters,  the  author  of  "Sesame  and  Lilies"  called  him  a 
"cretinous  wretch"  and  referred  to  him  as  uthe  man  of  no 
imagination."  Mr.  Mill  may  have  been  a  cretinous  wretch 
(I  do  not  exactly  understand  the  phrase),  but  the  preface  to 


JOHN      RUSKIN 57 

"On  Liberty"  is  at  once  the  tenderest,  highest  and  most 
sincere  compliment  paid  to  a  woman,  of  which  I  know. 
The  life  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Stuart  Mill  shows  that 
perfect  mating  is  possible;  yet  Mr.  Ruskin  has  only  scorn 
for  the  opinions  of  Mr.  Mill  on  a  subject  which  Mill  came  as 
near  personally  solving  in  a  matrimonial  "experiment"  as 
any  other  public  man  of  modern  times,  not  excepting  even 
Robert  Browning.  Therefore  we  might  suppose  Mr.  Mill 
entitled  to  speak  on  the  woman  question,  and  I  intimated 
as  much  to  Mr.  Ruskin. 

"He  might  know  all  about  one  woman,  and  if  he  should 
regard  her  as  a  sample  of  all  womankind,  would  he  not 
make  a  great  mistake?" 
I  was  silenced. 

In  "Fors  Clavigera,"  Letter  LIX,  the  author  says:  "I 
never  wrote  a  letter  in  my  life  which  all  the  world  is  not 
welcome  to  read."  From  this  one  might  imagine  that  Mr. 
Ruskin  never  loved — no  pressed  flowers  in  books ;  no  passages 
of  poetry  double  marked  and  scored;  no  bundles  of  letters 
faded  and  yellow,  sacred  for  his  own  eye,  tied  with  white 
or  dainty  blue  ribbon ;  no  little  nothings  hidden  away  in  the 
bottom  of  a  trunk.  And  yet  Mr.  Ruskin  has  his  ideas  on  the 
woman  question  and  very  positive  ideas  they  are  too — often 
sweetly  sympathetic  and  wisely  helpful. 
I  see  that  one  of  the  encyclopedias  mentions  Ruskin  as  a 
bachelor,  which  is  giving  rather  an  extended  meaning 
to  the  word,  for  although  Mr.  Ruskin  married,  he  was  not 
mated.  According  to  Collingwood's  account,  this  marriage 
was  a  quiet  arrangement  between  parents.  Anyway  the  genius 


58 JOHN     RUSKIN 

is  like  the  profligate  in  this:  when  he  marries  he  generally 
makes  a  woman  miserable.  And  misery  is  reactionary  as 
well  as  infectious.  Ruskin  is  a  genius. 
Genius  is  unique.  No  satisfactory  analysis  of  it  has  yet  been 
given.  We  know  a  few  of  its  indications — that 's  all.  First 
among  these  is  ability  to  concentrate. 

No  seed  can  sow  genius;  no  soil  can  grow  it:  its  quality  is 
inborn  and  defies  both  cultivation  and  extermination. 
To  be  surpassed  is  never  pleasant ;  to  feel  your  inferiority  is 
to  feel  a  pang.  Seldom  is  there  a  person  great  enough  to  find 
satisfaction  in  the  success  of  a  friend.  The  pleasure  that 
excellence  gives  is  oft  tainted  by  resentment;  and  so  the 
woman  who  marries  a  genius  is  usually  unhappy. 
Genius  is  excess :  it  is  obstructive  to  little  plans.  It  is  difficult 
to  warm  yourself  at  a  conflagration ;  the  tempest  may  blow 
you  away ;  the  sun  dazzles ;  lightning  seldom  strikes  gently ; 
the  Nile  overflows.  Genius  has  its  times  of  straying  off  into 
the  infinite — and  then  what  is  the  good  wife  to  do  for  com- 
panionship? Does  she  protest,  and  find  fault?  It  could  not  be 
otherwise,  for  genius  is  dictatorial  without  knowing  it, 
obstructive  without  wishing  to  be,  intolerant  unawares,  and 
unsocial  because  it  can  not  help  it. 

The  wife  of  a  genius  sometimes  takes  his  fits  of  abstraction 
for  stupidity,  and  having  the  man's  interests  at  heart  she 
endeavors  to  arouse  him  from  his  lethargy  by  chiding  him. 
Occasionally  he  arouses  enough  to  chide  back ;  and  so  it  has 
become  an  axiom  that  genius  is  not  domestic. 
A  short  period  of  mismated  life  told  the  wife  of  Ruskin  their 
mistake,  and  she  told  him.  But  Mrs.  Grundy  was  at  the 


JOHN     RUSKIN 59 

keyhole,  ready  to  tell  the  world,  and  so  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ruskin 
sought  to  deceive  society  by  pretending  to  live  together. 
They  kept  up  this  appearance  for  six  sorrowful  years,  and 
then  the  lady  simplified  the  situation  by  packing  her  trunks 
and  deliberately  leaving  her  genius  to  his  chimeras ;  her  soul 
doubtless  softened  by  the  knowledge  that  she  was  bestowing 
a  benefit  on  him  by  going  away.  The  lady  afterwards  became 
the  happy  wife  and  helpmeet  of  a  great  artist. 
Ruskin's  father  was  a  prosperous  importer  of  wines.  He 
left  his  son  a  fortune  equal  to  a  little  more  than  one  million 
dollars.  But  that  vast  fortune  has  gone — principal  and 
interest — gone  in  bequests,  gifts  and  experiments;  and 
today  Mr.  Ruskin  has  no  income  save  that  derived  from 
the  sale  of  his  books.  Talk  about  "Distribution  of  Wealth"! 
Here  we  have  it. 

The  bread-and-butter  question  has  never  troubled  John 
Ruskin  except  in  his  ever-ardent  desire  that  others  should  be 
fed  jt  His  days  have  been  given  to  study  and  writing  from 
his  very  boyhood;  he  has  made  money,  but  he  has  had  no 
time  to  save  it. 

He  has  expressed  himself  on  every  theme  that  interests 
mankind,  excepting  "housemaid's  knee."  He  has  written 
more  letters  to  the  newspapers  than  "Old  Subscriber," 
"Fiat  Justitia,"  "Indignant  Reader"  and  "Veritas"  com- 
bined. His  opinions  have  carried  much  weight  and  directed 
attention  into  necessary  lines ;  but  perhaps  his  success  as  an 
inspirer  of  thought  lies  in  the  fact  that  his  sense  of  humor 
exists  only  in  a  trace,  as  the  chemist  might  say.  Men  who 
perceive  the  ridiculous  would  never  have  voiced  many  of 


6o JOHN     RUSKIN 

the  things  which  he  has  said.  <jf  Surely  those  Sioux  Indians 
who  stretched  a  hay  lariat  across  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad 
in  order  to  stop  the  running  of  trains  had  small  sense  of 
the  ridiculous.  But  it  looks  as  if  they  were  apostles  of 
Ruskin,  every  one. 

Some  one  has  said  that  no  man  can  appreciate  the  beautiful 
who  has  not  a  keen  sense  of  humor.  For  the  beautiful  is  the 
harmonious,  and  the  laughable  is  the  absence  of  fit  adjust- 
ment ^t  ^t 

Mr.  Ruskin  disproves  the  maxim. 

But  let  no  hasty  soul  imagine  that  John  Ruskin's  opinions 
on  practical  themes  are  not  useful.  He  brings  to  bear  an 
energy  on  every  subject  he  touches  (and  what  subject  has  he 
not  touched?)  that  is  sure  to  make  the  sparks  of  thought  fly. 
His  independent  and  fearless  attitude  awakens  from  slumber 
a  deal  of  dozing  intellect,  and  out  of  this  strife  of  opinion 
comes  truth. 

On  account  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  refusing  at  times  to  see  visitors, 
reports  have  gone  abroad  that  his  mind  was  giving  way. 
Not  so,  for  although  he  is  seventy-four  he  is  as  serenely 
stubborn  as  he  ever  was.  His  opposition  to  new  inventions 
in  machinery  has  not  relaxed  a  single  pulley's  turn.  You 
grant  his  premises  and  in  his  conclusions  you  will  find  that 
his  belt  never  slips,  and  that  his  logic  never  jumps  a  cog  ^ 
His  life  is  as  regular  and  exact  as  the  trains  on  the. Great 
Western,  and  his  days  are  more  peaceful  than  ever  before. 
He  has  regular  hours  for  writing,  study,  walking,  reading, 
eating,  and  working  out-of-doors,  superintending  the  culti- 
vation of  his  hundred  acres.  He  told  me  that  he  had  not 


JOHN     RUSKIN 


61 


varied  a  half -hour  in  two  years  from  a  certain  time  of  going 
to  bed  or  getting  up  in  the  morning.  Although  his  form  is 
bowed,  this  regularity  of  life  has  borne  fruit  in  the  rich  russet 
of  his  complexion,  the  mild,  clear  eye,  and  the  pleasure  in 
living  in  spite  of  occasional  pain,  which  you  know  the  man 
feels.  His  hair  is  thick  and  nearly  white ;  the  beard  is  now 
worn  quite  long  and  gives  a  patriarchal  appearance  to  the 
fine  face. 

When  we  arose  to  take  our  leave,  Mr.  Ruskin  took  a  white 
felt  hat  from  the  elk-antlers  in  the  hallway  and  a  stout  stick 
from  the  corner,  and  offered  to  show  us  a  nearer  way  back 
to  the  village.  We  walked  down  a  footpath  through  the  tall 
grass  to  the  lake,  where  he  called  our  attention  to  various 
varieties  of  ferns  that  he  had  transplanted  there. 
We  shook  hands  with  the  old  gentleman  and  thanked  him 
for  the  pleasure  he  had  given  us.  He  was  still  examining 
the  ferns  when  we  lifted  our  hats  and  bade  him  good-day  jfc 
He  evidently  did  not  hear  us,  for  I  heard  him  mutter:  "I 
verily  believe  those  miserable  Cook's  tourists  that  were 
down  here  yesterday  picked  some  of  my  ferns. " 


WILLIAM   E.  GLADSTONE 


WM.    E.    GLADSTONE 


AS  the  aloe  is  said  to  flower  only  once  in  a  hundred  years,  so  it 
seems  to  be  but  once  in  a  thousand  years  that  Nature  blossoms 
into  this  unrivaled  product  and  produces  such  a  man  as  we  have  here. 

—GLADSTONE,  "Lecture  on  Homer." 


WM.  E.  GLADSTONE 


MERICAN  travelers  in  England  are  said  to 
accumulate  sometimes  large  and  unique 
assortments  of  lisps,  drawls  and  other  very 
peculiar  things,  jffc  Of  the  value  of  these 
acquirements  as  regards  their  use  and 
beauty,  I  have  not  room  here  to  speak.  But 
there  is  one  adjunct  which  England  has 
that  we  positively  need,  and  that  is ' '  Boots. " 
It  may  be  that  Boots  is  indigenous  to  Eng- 
land's soil,  and  that  when  transplanted  he 
withers  and  dies ;  perhaps  there  is  a  quality 
in  our  atmosphere  that  kills  HimT  Anyway, 
we  have  no  Boots. 

When  trouble,  adversity  or  bewilderment 
comes  to  the  homesick  traveler  in  an  Ameri- 
can hotel,  to  whom  can  he  turn  for  con- 
solation? Alas,  the  porter  is  afraid  of  the 
"guest,"  and  all  guests  are  afraid  of  the 
clerk,  and  the  proprietor  is  never  seen,  and 
the  Afro-Americans  in  the  dining-room  are 
stupid,  and  the  chambermaid  does  not 
answer  the  ring,  and  at  last  the  weary 
wanderer  hies  him  to  the  barroom  and  soon 
discovers  that  the  worthy  "barkeep"  has 
nothing  to  recommend  him  but  his  dia- 
mond-pin. How  different,  yes,  how  different, 
this  would  all  be  if  Boots  were  only  here! 
At  the  quaint  old  city  of  Chester  I  was 
met  at  the  "sti-shun"  by  the  Boots  of 


68 WM.    E.    GLADSTONE 

that  excellent  though  modest  hotel  which  stands  only  a 
block  away.  Boots  picked  out  my  baggage  without  my 
looking  for  it,  took  me  across  to  the  Inn,  and  showed  me 
to  the  daintiest,  most  homelike  little  room  I  had  seen  for 
weeks.  On  the  table  was  a  tastefully  decorated  "jug,"  evi- 
dently just  placed  there  in  anticipation  of  my  arrival,  and 
in  this  jug  was  a  large  bunch  of  gorgeous  roses,  the  morning 
dew  still  on  them. 

When  Boots  had  brought  me  hot  water  for  shaving  he  dis- 
appeared and  did  not  come  back  until,  by  the  use  of  telepathy 
(for  Boots  is  always  psychic),  I  had  sent  him  a  message  that 
he  was  needed.  In  the  afternoon  he  went  with  me  to  get  a 
draft  cashed,  then  he  identified  me  at  the  Post-office,  and 
introduced  me  to  a  dignitary  at  the  cathedral  whose  courtesy 
added  greatly  to  my  enjoyment  of  the  visit. 
The  next  morning  after  breakfast,  when  I  returned  to  my 
room,  everything  was  put  to  rights  and  a  fresh  bouquet  of 
cut  flowers  was  on  the  mantel.  A  good  breakfast  adds  much 
to  one's  inward  peace:  I  sat  down  before  the  open  window 
and  looked  out  at  the  great  oaks  dotting  the  green  meadows 
that  stretched  away  to  the  North,  and  listened  to  the  drowsy 
tinkle  of  sheep-bells  as  the  sound  came  floating  in  on  the 
perfumed  breeze.  I  was  thinking  how  good  it  was  to  be  here, 
when  the  step  of  Boots  was  heard  hi  the  doorway.  I  turned 
and  saw  that  mine  own  familiar  friend  had  lost  a  little  of  his 
calm  self-reliance — in  fact,  he  was  a  bit  agitated,  but  he 
soon  recovered  his  breath: 

"Mr.  Gladstone  and  'is  Lady  *ave  just  arrived,  sir — they  will 
be  'ere  for  an  hour  before  taking  the  train  for  Lunnon,  sir. 


WM.    E.    GLADSTONE 69 

I  told  'is  dark  there  was  a  party  of  Americans  'ere  that  were 
very  anxious  to  meet  'im  and  he  will  receive  you  in  the  parlor 
in  fifteen  minutes,  sir. " 

Then  it  was  my  turn  to  be  agitated.  But  Boots  reassured  me 
by  explaining  that  the  Grand  Old  Man  was  just  the  plainest, 
most  unpretentious  gentleman  one  could  imagine;  that  it 
was  not  at  all  necessary  that  I  should  change  my  suit;  that  I 
should  pronounce  it  Gladstun,  not  Glad-stone,  and  that  it 
was  Harden,  not  Ha- war-den.  Then  he  stood  me  up,  looked 
me  over,  and  declared  that  I  was  all  right. 
On  going  downstairs  I  found  that  Boots  had  gotten  together 
five  Americans  who  happened  to  be  in  the  hotel.  He  intro- 
duced us  to  a  bright  little  man  who  seemed  to  be  the  com- 
panion or  secretary  of  the  Prime  Minister;  he,  in  turn,  took 
us  into  the  parlor  where  Mr.  Gladstone  sat  reading  the 
morning  paper  and  presented  us  one  by  one  to  the  great  man. 
We  were  each  greeted  with  a  pleasant  word  and  a  firm  grasp 
of  the  hand,  and  then  the  old  gentleman  turned  and  with 
a  courtly  flourish  said:  " Gentlemen,  allow  me  to  present 
you  to  Mrs.  Gladstone." 

Mr.  Gladstone  was  wise:  he  remained  standing;  this  was 
sure  to  shorten  the  interview.  A  clergyman  in  our  party  who 
had  an  impressive  cough  and  bushy  whiskers,  acted  as 
spokesman,  and  said  several  pleasant  things,  closing  his 
little  speech  by  informing  Mr.  Gladstone  that  Americans 
held  him  in  great  esteem,  and  that  we  only  regretted  that 
Fate  had  not  decreed  that  he  should  have  been  born  in  the 
United  States. 
Mr.  Gladstone  replied,  "Fate  is  often  unkind."  Then  he 


TO WM.    E.    GLADSTONE 

asked  if  we  were  going  to  London.  On  being  told  that  we 
were,  he  spoke  for  five  minutes  about  the  things  we  should 
see  in  the  Metropolis.  His  style  was  not  conversational,  but 
after  the  manner  of  a  man  who  was  much  used  to  speaking 
in  public  or  to  receiving  delegations.  The  sentences  were 
stately,  the  voice  rather  loud  and  declamatory.  His  closing 
words  were:  "Yes,  gentlemen,  the  way  to  see  London  is 
from  the  top  of  a  'bus — from  the  top  of  a  'bus,  gentlemen. " 
Then  there  was  an  almost  imperceptible  wave  of  the  hand, 
and  we  knew  that  the  interview  was  ended.  In  a  moment  we 
were  outside  and  the  door  was  closed. 
The  five  Americans  who  made  up  our  little  company  had 
never  met  before,  but  now  we  were  as  brothers ;  we  adjourned 
to  a  side  room  to  talk  it  over  and  tell  of  the  things  we  intended 
to  say  but  did  n't.  We  all  talked  and  talked  at  once,  just  as 
people  do  who  have  recently  preserved  an  enforced  silence. 
<J"How  ill-fitting  was  that  gray  suit!" 
"Yes,  the  sleeves  too  long. " 

"Did  you  notice  the  absence  of  the  forefinger  of  his  left 
hand — shot  off  in  Eighteen  Hundred  Forty-five  while  hunt- 
ing, they  say." 

"But  how  strong  his  voice  is!" 
"He  looks  like  a  farmer." 

"Eighty-five  years  of  age!  Think  of  it,  and  how  vigorous  I" 
<j[  Then  the  preacher  spoke  and  his  voice  was  sorrowful : 
"Oh,  but  I  made  a  botch  of  it — was  it  sarcasm  or  was  it  not?  " 
<J  "Was  what  sarcasm  ?" 

"When  Mr.  Gladstone  said  that  Fate  was  unkind  in  not 
having  him  born  in  the  United  States!" 


WM.    E.    GLADSTONE 71 

And  we  were  all  silent.  Then  Boots  came  in,  and  we  put  the 
question  to  Boots,  who  decided  it  was  not  sarcasm.  The  next 
day,  when  we  went  away,  we  rewarded  Boots  bountifully. 

LADSTONE  is  England's  glory.  Yet  there  is  no  English 
blood  hi  his  veins;  his  parents  were  Scotch.  Aside 
from  Lord  Brougham,  he  is  the  only  Scotchman  who 
has  ever  taken  a  prominent  part  in  British  statecraft.  The 
name  as  we  first  find  it  is  Gled-Stane,  "gled"  being  a  hawk 
— literally,  a  hawk  that  lives  among  the  stones.  Surely  the 
hawk  is  fully  as  respectable  a  bird  as  the  eagle,  and  a 
goodly  amount  of  granite  in  the  clay  that  is  used  to  make 
a  man  is  no  disadvantage.  The  name  fits. 
There  are  deep-rooted  theories  in  the  minds  of  many  men 
(and  still  more  women)  that  bad  boys  make  good  men,  and 
that  a  dash  of  the  pirate,  even  in  a  prelate,  does  not  disqualify. 
But  I  wish  to  come  to  the  defense  of  the  Sunday-school 
story-books  and  show  that  their  very  prominent  moral  is 
right  after  all:  it  pays  to  be  "good." 
William  Ewart  Gladstone  was  sent  to  Eton  when  twelve 
years  of  age.  From  the  first,  his  conduct  was  a  model  of 
propriety.  He  attended  every  chapel  service,  and  said  his 
prayers  in  the  morning  and  before  going  to  bed  at  night;  he 
could  repeat  the  catechism  backwards  or  forwards,  and 
recite  more  verses  of  Scripture  than  any  boy  in  school. 
He  always  spoke  the  truth.  He  never  played  "hookey";  nor, 
as  he  grew  older,  would  he  tell  stories  of  doubtful  flavor,  or 
allow  others  to  relate  such  in  his  presence.  His  influence  was 
for  good,  and  Cardinal  Manning  has  said  that  there  was  less 


72 WM.    E.    GLADSTONE 

wine  drunk  at  Oxford  during  the  Forties  than  would  have 
been  the  case  if  Gladstone  had  not  been  there  in  the  Thirties. 
tf  He  graduated  from  Christchurch  with  the  highest  possible 
honors  the  college  could  bestow,  and  at  twenty-two  he 
seemed  like  one  who  had  sprung  into  life  full-armed. 
At  that  time  he  had  magnificent  health,  a  fine  form,  vast  and 
varied  knowledge,  and  a  command  of  language  so  great 
that  he  was  a  master  of  forensics.  His  speeches  were  fully 
equal  to  his  later  splendid  efforts.  In  feature  he  was  hand- 
some: the  face  bold  and  masculine;  eyes  of  piercing  luster; 
and  hair,  which  he  tossed  when  in  debate,  like  a  lion's  mane. 
He  could  speak  five  languages,  sing  tenor,  dance  gracefully, 
and  was  on  more  than  speaking  terms  with  many  of  the 
best  and  greatest  men  in  England.  Besides  all  this  he  was 
rich  in  British  gold. 

Now,  here  is  a  combination  of  good  things  that  would  send 
most  young  men  straight  to  perdition — not  so  Gladstone.  He 
took  the  best  care  of  his  health,  systematized  his  time  as  a 
miser  might,  listened  not  to  the  flatterers,  and  used  his  money 
only  for  good  purposes.  His  intention  was  to  enter  the  Church, 
but  his  father  said,  "Not  yet,"  and  half  forced  him  into 
politics.  So,  at  this  early  age  of  twenty-two,  he  ran  for 
Parliament,  was  elected,  and  has  practically  never  been  out 
of  the  shadow  of  Westminster  Palace  during  these  sixty-odd 
years  «jt  jt 

At  thirty-three,  he  was  a  member  of  the  Cabinet.  At  thirty- 
six,  his  absolute  honesty  compelled  him  for  conscience1  sake 
to  resign  from  the  Ministry.  His  opponents  then  said,  "Glad- 
stone is  an  extinct  volcano,"  and  they  have  said  this  again 


WM.    E.    GLADSTONE 73 

and  again,  but  somehow  the  volcano  always  breaks  out  in  a 
new  place,  stronger  and  brighter  than  ever.  It  is  difficult  to 
subdue  a  volcano. 

When  twenty-nine,  he  married  Catherine  Glynne,  sister  and 
heir  of  Sir  Stephen  Glynne,  Baronet.  The  marriage  was  most 
fortunate  in  every  way.  For  over  fifty  years  this  most 
excellent  woman  has  been  his  comrade,  counselor,  consola- 
tion, friend — his  wife.  "How  can  any  adversity  come  to  him 
who  hath  a  wife?"  said  Chaucer. 

If  this  splendid  woman  had  died,  then  his  opponents  might 
truthfully  have  said,  "Gladstone  is  an  extinct  volcano";  but 
she  is  still  with  him,  and  a  short  time  ago,  when  he  had  to 
undergo  an  operation  for  cataract,  this  woman  of  eighty 
was  his  only  nurse. 

The  influence  of  Gladstone  has  been  of  untold  value  to 
England.  His  ideals  for  national  action  have  been  high.  To 
the  material  prosperity  of  the  country  he  has  added  millions 
upon  millions ;  he  has  made  education  popular,  and  schooling 
easy;  his  policy  in  the  main  has  been  such  as  to  command 
the  admiration  of  the  good  and  great.  But  there  are  spots  on 
the  sun  jfc  Jt 

On  reading  Mr.  Gladstone's  books  I  find  he  has  vigorously 
defended  certain  measures  that  seem  unworthy  of  his 
genius.  He  has  palliated  human  slavery  as  a  "necessary 
evil";  has  maintained  the  visibility  and  divine  authority  of 
the  Church;  has  asserted  the  mathematical  certainty  of  the 
historic  episcopate,  the  mystical  efficacy  of  the  sacraments; 
and  has  vindicated  the  Church  of  England  as  the  God- 
appointed  guardian  of  truth.  €J  He  has  fought  bitterly  any 


74 WM.    E.    GLADSTONE 

attempt  to  improve  the  divorce-laws  of  England.  Much  has 
been  done  in  this  line,  even  in  spite  of  his  earnest  opposition, 
but  we  now  owe  it  to  Mr.  Gladstone  that  there  is  on  England's 
law-books  a  statute  providing  that  if  a  wife  leaves  her  hus- 
band he  can  invoke  a  magistrate,  whose  duty  it  will  then 
be  to  issue  a  writ  and  give  it  to  an  officer,  who  will  bring  her 
back.  More  than  this,  when  the  officer  has  returned  the 
woman,  the  loving  husband  has  the  legal  right  to  "reprove" 
her.  Just  what  reprove  means  the  courts  have  not  yet 
determined;  for,  in  a  recent  decision,  when  a  costermonger 
admitted  having  given  his  lady  "a  taste  of  the  cat,"  the 
prisoner  was  discharged  on  the  ground  that  it  was  only 
needed  reproof. 

I  would  not  complain  of  this  law  if  it  worked  both  ways ;  but 
no  wife  can  demand  that  the  State  shall  return  her  "man" 
willy-nilly,  And  if  she  administers  reproof  to  her  mate,  she 
does  it  without  the  sanction  of  the  Sovereign. 
However,  in  justice  to  Englishmen,  it  should  be  stated  that 
while  this  unique  law  still  stands  on  the  statute-books,  it  is 
very  seldom  that  a  man  in  recent  years  has  stooped  to  invoke 
it  jt  dH 

On  all  the  questions  I  have  named,  from  slavery  to  divorce, 
Mr.  Gladstone  has  used  the  "Bible  argument."  But  as  the 
years  have  gone  by,  his  mind  has  become  liberalized,  and  on 
many  points  where  h$  was  before  zealous  he  is  now  silent. 
In  Eighteen  Hundred  Forty-one,  he  argued  with  much  skill 
and  ingenuity  that  Jews  were  not  entitled  to  full  rights  of 
citizenship,  but  in  Eighteen  Hundred  Forty-seven,  acknowl- 
edging his  error,  he  took  the  other  side. 


WM.    E.    GLADSTONE 75 

During  the  War  of  Secession  the  sympathies  of  England's 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  were  with  the  South.  Speaking 
at  Newcastle  on  October  Ninth,  Eighteen  Hundred  Sixty-two, 
he  said,  "Jefferson  Davis  has  undoubtedly  founded  a  new 
nation."  But  five  years  passed,  and  he  publicly  confessed 
that  he  was  wrong. 

Here  is  a  man  who,  if  he  should  err  deeply,  is  yet  so  great 
that,  like  Cotton  Mather,  he  might  not  hesitate  to  stand 
uncovered  on  the  street-corners  and  ask  the  forgiveness  of 
mankind.  Such  men  are  saved  by  their  enemies.  Their  own 
good  and  the  good  of  humanity  require  that  their  balance  of 
power  shall  not  be  too  great.  Had  the  North  gone  down, 
Gladstone  might  never  have  seen  his  mistake.  In  this  instance 
and  in  many  others,  he  has  not  been  the  leader  of  progress, 
but  its  echo :  truth  has  been  forced  upon  him.  His  passionate 
earnestness,  his  intense  volition,  his  insensibility  to  moral 
perspective,  his  blindness  to  the  sense  of  proportion,  might 
have  led  him  into  dangerous  excess  and  frightful  fanatical 
error,  if  it  were  not  for  the  fact  that  such  men  create  an 
opposition  that  is  their  salvation. 

To  analyze  a  character  so  complex  as  Mr.  Gladstone's 
requires  the  grasp  of  genius.  We  speak  of  "the  duality  of 
the  human  mind,"  but  here  are  half  a  dozen  spirits  in  one. 
They  rule  in  turn,  and  occasionally  several  of  them  struggle 
for  the  mastery. 

When  the  Fisk  Jubilee  Singers  visited  England,  we  find 
Gladstone  dropping  the  affairs  of  State  to  hear  their  music.  He 
invited  them  to  Hawarden,  where  he  sang  with  them.  So 
impressed  was  he  with  the  negro  melodies  that  he  anticipated 


76 WM.    E.    GLADSTONE 

that  idea  which  has  since  been  materialized:  the  founding 
of  a  national  school  of  music  that  would  seek  to  perfect  in  a 
scientific  way  these  soul-stirring  strains. 
He  might  have  made  a  poet  of  no  mean  order;  for  his 
devotion  to  spiritual  and  physical  beauty  has  made  him  a 
lifelong  admirer  of  Homer  and  Dante.  Those  who  have  met 
him  when  the  mood  was  upon  him  have  heard  him  recite 
by  the  hour  from  the  "Iliad"  in  the  original.  And  yet  the 
theology  of  Homer  belongs  to  the  realm  of  natural  religion 
with  which  Mr.  Gladstone  has  little  patience. 
A  prominent  member  of  the  House  of  Commons  once  said : 
"The  only  two  things  that  the  Prime  Minister  really  cares 
for  are  religion  and  finance."  The  statement  comes  near 
truth;  for  the  chief  element  in  Mr.  Gladstone's  character  is 
his  devotion  to  religion;  and  his  signal  successes  have  been 
in  the  line  of  economics.  He  believes  in  Free  Trade  as  the 
gospel  of  social  salvation.  He  revels  in  figures;  he  has  price, 
value,  consumption,  distribution,  import,  export,  fluctuation, 
all  at  his  tongue's  end,  ready  to  hurl  at  any  one  who  ventures 
on  a  hasty  generalization.  <|  And  it  is  a  significant  fact  that  in 
his  strong  appeal  for  the  disestablishment  of  the  Irish  Church, 
the  stress  of  his  argument  was  put  on  the  point  that  the  Irish 
Church  was  not  in  the  line  of  the  apostolic  succession. 
Mr.  Gladstone  is  grave,  sober,  earnest,  proud,  passionate,  and 
at  times  romantic  to  a  rare  degree.  He  rebukes,  refutes, 
contradicts,  defies,  and  has  a  magnificent  capacity  for 
indignation.  He  will  roar  you  like  a  lion,  his  eyes  will  flash, 
and  his  clenched  fist  will  shake  as  he  denounces  that  which 
he  believes  to  be  error.  And  yet  among  inferiors  he  will 


WM.    E.    GLADSTONE 77 

consult,  defer,  inquire,  and  show  a  humility,  a  forced 
suavity,  that  has  given  the  caricaturist  excuse. 
In  his  home  he  is  gentle,  amiable,  always  kind,  social  and 
hospitable.  He  loves  deeply,  and  his  friends  revere  him  to  a 
point  that  is  but  little  this  side  of  idolatry.  And  surely  their 
affection  is  not  misplaced. 

Some  day  a  Plutarch  without  a  Plutarch's  prejudice  will 
arise,  and  with  malice  toward  none,  but  with  charity  for  all, 
he  will  write  the  life  of  the  statesman,  Gladstone.  Over 
against  this  he  will  write  the  life  of  an  American  statesman. 
The  name  he  will  choose  will  be  that  of  one  born  in  a  log  hut 
in  the  forest;  who  was  rocked  by  the  foot  of  a  mother  whose 
hands  meanwhile  were  busy  at  her  wheel;  who  had  no 
schooling,  no  wise  and  influential  friends;  who  had  few 
books  and  little  time  to  read;  who  knew  no  formal  religion; 
who  never  traveled  out  of  his  own  country;  who  had  no 
helpmeet,  but  who  walked  solitary — alone,  a  man  of  sorrows ; 
down  whose  homely,  furrowed  face  the  tears  of  pity  often 
ran,  and  yet  whose  name,  strange  paradox!  stands  in  many 
minds  as  a  symbol  of  mirth. 

And  when  the  master  comes,  who  has  the  power  to  portray 
with  absolute  fidelity  the  greatness  of  these  two  men,  will  it 
be  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  American? 

f  HE  village  of  Hawarden  is  in  Flintshire,  North  Wales. 
It  is  seven  miles  from  Chester.  I  walked  the  distance 
one  fine  June  morning — out  across  the  battlefield 

where  Cromwell's  army  crushed  that  of  Charles;  and  on 

past  old  stone  walls  and  stately  elms. 


78  WM.    E.    GLADSTONE 

There  had  been  a  shower  the  night  before,  but  the  morning 
sun  came  out  bright  and  warm  and  made  the  raindrops 
glisten  like  beads  as  they  clung  to  each  leaf  and  flower. 
Larks  sang  and  soared,  and  great  flocks  of  crows  called 
and  cawed  as  they  flew  lazily  across  the  sky.  It  was  a  time 
for  silent  peace,  and  quiet  joy,  and  serene  thankfulness  for 
life  and  health. 

I  walked  leisurely,  and  in  a  little  over  two  hours  reached 
Hawarden — a  cluster  of  plain  stone  houses  with  climbing 
vines  and  flowers  and  gardens,  which  told  of  homely  thrift 
and  simple  tastes.  I  went  straight  to  the  old  stone  church, 
which  is  always  open,  and  rested  for  half  an  hour,  listening 
to  the  organ  on  which  a  young  girl  was  practising,  instructed 
by  a  white-haired  old  gentleman. 

The  church  is  dingy  and  stained  inside  and  out  by  time.  The 
pews  are  irregular,  some  curiously  carved,  and  all  stiff  and 
uncomfortable.  I  walked  around  and  read  the  inscriptions  on 
the  walls,  and  all  the  time  the  young  girl  played  and  the  old 
gentleman  beat  time,  and  neither  noticed  my  presence.  One 
brass  tablet  I  saw  was  to  a  woman  "who  for  long  years  was 
a  faithful  servant  at  Hawarden  Castle — erected  in  gratitude 
by  W.  E.  G. "  Near  this  was  a  memorial  to  W.  H.  Gladstone, 
son  of  the  Premier,  who  died  in  Eighteen  Hundred  Ninety- 
one.  Then  there  were  inscriptions  to  various  Glynnes  and 
several  others  whose  names  appear  in  English  history.  I 
stood  at  the  reading-desk,  where  the  great  man  has  so  often 
read,  and  marked  the  spot  where  William  Ewart  Gladstone 
and  Catherine  Glynne  knelt  when  they  were  married  here 
in  July,  Eighteen  Hundred  Thirty-nine. 


WM.    E.    GLADSTONE 79 

A  short  distance  from  the  church  is  the  entrance  to  Hawarden 
Park.  This  fine  property  was  the  inheritance  of  Mrs.  Glad- 
stone; the  park  itself  seems  to  belong  to  the  public.  If 
Mr.  Gladstone  were  a  plain  citizen,  people,  of  course,  would  not 
come  by  hundreds  and  picnic  on  his  preserve,  but  serving  the 
State,  he  and  his  possessions  belong  to  the  people,  and  this 
democratic  familiarity  is  rather  pleasing  than  otherwise.  So 
great  has  been  the  throng  in  times  past,  that  an  iron  fence 
had  to  be  placed  about  the  ivy-covered  ruins  of  the  ancient 
castle,  to  protect  it  from  those  who  threatened  to  carry  it 
away  by  the  pocketful.  A  wall  has  also  been  put  around  the 
present  "castle"  (more  properly,  house).  This  was  done  some 
years  ago,  I  was  told  by  the  butler,  after  a  torchlight  proces- 
sion of  a  thousand  enthusiastic  admirers  had  come  down 
from  Liverpool  and  trampled  Mrs.  Gladstone's  flowers  into 
"smithereens." 

The  park  contains  many  hundred  acres,  and  is  as  beautiful 
as  an  English  park  can  be,  and  this  is  praise  superlative. 
Flocks  of  sheep  wander  over  the  soft,  green  turf,  and  beneath 
the  spreading  trees  are  sleek  cows  which  seem  used  to 
visitors,  and  with  big,  open  eyes  come  up  to  be  petted. 
<J  Occasional  signs  are  seen:  "Please  spare  the  trees."  Some 
people  suppose  that  this  is  an  injunction  which  Mr.  Gladstone 
himself  has  never  observed.  But  when  in  his  tree-cutting 
days,  no  monarch  of  the  forest  was  ever  felled  without  its 
case  being  fully  tried  by  the  entire  household.  Ruskin,  once, 
visiting  at  Hawarden,  sat  as  judge,  and  after  listening  to  the 
evidence  gave  sentence  against  several  trees  that  were  rotten 
at  the  core  or  overshadowing  their  betters.  Then  the  Prime 


8o WM.    E.    GLADSTONE 

Minister  shouldered  his  faithful  "snickersnee"  and  went 

forth  as  executioner. 

I  looked  in  vain  for  stumps,  and  on  inquiry  was  told  that 

they  were  all  dug  out  and  the  ground  leveled  so  no  trace  was 

left  of  the  offender. 

The  "lady  of  the  house"  at  Hawarden  is  the  second  daughter 

of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gladstone.  All  accounts  agree  that  she  is  a 

most  capable  and  excellent  woman.  She  is  her  father's 

"home  secretary"  and  confidante,  and  in  his  absence  takes 

full  charge  of  the  mail  and  looks  after  important  business 

affairs.  Her  husband,  the  Reverend  Harry  Drew,  is  rector  of 

Hawarden  Church.  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Mr.  Drew 

and  found  him  very  cordial  and  perfectly  willing  to  talk  about 

the  great  man  who  is  grandfather  to  his  baby.  We  also  talked 

of  America,  and  I  soon  surmised  that  Mr.  Drew's  ideas  of 

"The  States"  were  largely  derived  from  a  visit  to  the  Wild 

West  Show.  So  I  put  the  question  to  him  direct: 

"Did  you  see  Buffalo  Bill?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"And  did  Mr.  Gladstone  go?" 

"Not  only  once,  but  three  times,  and  he  cheered  as  loudly 

as  any  boy. "  CJ  The  Gladstone  residence  is  a  great,  rambling, 

stone  structure  to  which  additions  have  been  made  from  one 

generation  to  another.  The  towers  and  battlements  are  merely 

architectural  appendiculae,  but  the  effect  of  the  whole,  when 

viewed  from  a  distance,  rising  out  of  its  wealth  of  green  and 

backed  by  the  forest,  is  very  imposing. 

I  entered  only  the  spacious  front  hallway  and  one  room — 

the  library.  Bookshelves  and  books  and  more  books  were 


WM.    E.    GLADSTONE 


81 


everywhere ;  several  desks  of  different  designs  (one  an  Ameri- 
can roll-top),  as  if  the  owner  transacted  business  at  one, 
translated  Homer  at  another,  and  wrote  social  letters  from 
a  third.  Then  there  were  several  large  Japanese  vases,  a  tiger 
skin,  beautiful  rugs,  a  few  large  paintings,  and  in  a  rack  a 
full  dozen  axes  and  twice  as  many  "sticks. "  <J  The  whole  place 
has  an  air  of  easy  luxury  that  speaks  of  peace  and  plenty, 
of  quiet  and  rest,  of  gentle  thoughts  and  calm  desires. 
As  I  walked  across  toward  the  village,  the  church  bell  slowly 
pealed  the  hour;  over  the  distant  valley,  night  hovered;  a 
streak  of  white  mist,  trailing  like  a  thin  veil,  marked  the 
passage  of  the  murmuring  brook.  I  thought  of  the  grand  old 
man  over  whose  domain  I  was  now  treading,  and  my  wonder 
was,  not  that  one  should  live  so  long  and  still  be  vigorous, 
but  that  a  man  should  live  in  such  an  idyllic  spot,  with  love 
and  books  to  keep  him  company,  and  yet  grow  old. 


J.  M.  W.  TURNER 


J.     M.    W.    TURNER 


1  BELIEVE  that  these  works  of  Turner's  are  at  their  first  appear- 
ing as  perfect  as  those  of  Phidias  or  Leonardo,  that  is  to  say, 
incapable  of  any  improvement  conceivable  by  human  mind. 

— John  Ruskin 


W.  TURNER 

'HE  beauty  of  the  upper  Thames  with  its 
fairy  house-boats  and  green  banks  has 
been  sung  by  poets,  but  rash  is  the  minstrel 
who  tunes  his  lyre  to  sound  the  praises  of 
this  muddy  stream  in  the  vicinity  of  Chel- 
sea. As  yellow  as  the  Tiber  and  thick  as  the 
Missouri  after  a  flood,  it  comes  twice  a  day 
bearing  upon  its  tossing  tide  a  unique 
assortment  of  uncanny  sights  and  sicken- 
ing smells  from  the  swarming  city  of  men 
below  jt  jt 

Chelsea  was  once  a  country  village  six 
miles  from  London  Bridge.  Now  the  far- 
reaching  arms  of  the  metropolis  have  taken 
it  as  her  own. 

Chelsea  may  be  likened  to  some  rare 
spinster,  grown  old  with  years  and  good 
works,  and  now  having  a  safe  home  with 
a  rich  and  powerful  benefactress.  Yet  Chel- 
sea is  not  handsome  in  her  old  age,  and 
Chelsea  was  not  pretty  hi  youth,  nor  fair 
to  view  in  middle  life;  but  Chelsea  has  been 
the  foster-mother  of  several  of  the  rarest 
and  fairest  souls  who  have  ever  made  the 
earth  pilgrimage. 

And  the  greatness  of  genius  still  rests  upon 
Chelsea.  As  we  walk  slowly  through  its  wind- 
ing ways,  by  the  edge  of  its  troubled  waters, 
among  dark  and  crooked  turns,  through 


88 J.     M.    W.    TURNER 

curious  courts,  by  old  gateways  and  piles  of  steepled  stone, 
where  flocks  of  pigeons  wheel,  and  bells  chime,  and  organs 
peal,  and  winds  sigh,  we  know  that  all  has  been  sanctified 
by  their  presence.  And  their  spirits  abide  with  us,  and  the 
splendid  beauty  of  their  visions  is  about  us.  For  the  stones 
beneath  our  feet  have  been  hallowed  by  their  tread,  and  the 
walls  have  borne  their  shadows;  so  all  mean  things  are 
transfigured  and  over  all  these  plain  and  narrow  streets  their 
glory  gleams. 

And  it  is  the  great  men  and  they  alone  that  can  render  a 
place  sacred.  Chelsea  is  now  to  the  lovers  of  the  Beautiful  a 
sacred  name,  a  sacred  soil;  a  place  of  pilgrimage  where 
certain  gods  of  Art  once  lived,  and  loved,  and  worked,  and 
died  j*  jt 

Sir  Thomas  More  lived  here  and  had  for  a  frequent  guest 
Erasmus.  Hans  Sloane  began  in  Chelsea  the  collection  of 
curiosities  which  has  now  developed  into  the  British  Museum. 
Bishop  Atterbury  (who  claimed  that  Dryden  was  a  greater 
poet  than  Shakespeare),  Dean  Swift  and  Doctor  Arbuthnot, 
all  lived  in  Church  Street;  Richard  Steele  just  around  the 
corner  and  Leigh  Hunt  in  Cheyne  Row;  but  it  was  from 
another  name  that  the  little  street  was  to  be  immortalized. 
<j[  If  France  constantly  has  forty  Immortals  in  the  flesh, 
surely  it  is  a  modest  claim  to  say  that  Chelsea  has  three  for 
all  time:  Thomas  Carlyle,  George  Eliot  and  Joseph  Mallord 
William  Turner. 

Turner's  father  was  a  barber.  His  youth  was  passed  in  poverty 
and  his  advantages  for  education  were  very  slight.  And  all 
this  in  the  crowded  city  of  London,  where  merit  may  knock 


J.     M.    W.    TURNER 89 

long  and  still  not  be  heard,  and  in  a  country  where  wealth 
and  title  count  for  much. 

When  a  boy,  barefoot  and  ragged,  he  would  wander  away 
alone  on  the  banks  of  the  river  and  dream  dreams  about 
wonderful  palaces  and  beautiful  scenes;  and  then  he  would 
trace  with  a  stick  in  the  sands,  endeavoring,  with  mud,  to 
make  plain  to  the  eye  the  things  that  his  soul  saw. 
His  mother  was  quite  sure  that  no  good  could  come  from 
this  vagabondish  nature,  and  she  did  not  spare  the  rod,  for 
she  feared  that  the  desire  to  scrawl  and  daub  would  spoil 
the  child.  But  he  was  a  stubborn  lad,  with  a  pugnose  and 
big,  dreamy,  wondering  eyes,  and  a  heavy  jaw;  and  when 
parents  see  that  they  have  such  a  son,  they  had  better  hang 
up  the  rod  behind  the  kitchen-door  and  lay  aside  force  and 
cease  scolding.  For  love  is  better  than  a  cat-o'-nine-tails,  and 
sympathy  saves  more  souls  than  threats. 
The  elder  Turner  considered  that  the  proper  use  of  a  brush 
was  to  lather  chins.  But  the  boy  thought  differently,  and  once 
surreptitiously  took  one  of  his  father's  brushes  to  paint  a 
picture;  the  brush  on  being  returned  to  its  cup  was  used  the 
next  day  upon  a  worthy  haberdasher,  whose  cheeks  were 
shortly  colored  a  vermilion  that  matched  his  nose.  This  lost 
the  barber  a  customer  and  secured  the  boy  a  thrashing. 
Young  Turner  did  not  always  wash  his  father's  shop-windows 
well,  nor  sweep  off  the  sidewalk  properly.  Like  all  boys  he 
would  rather  work  for  some  one  else  than  for  "his  folks." 
<I  He  used  to  run  errands  for  an  engraver  by  the  name  of 
Smith — John  Raphael  Smith.  Once,  when  Smith  sent  the 
barber's  boy  with  a  letter  to  a  certain  art-gallery  with  orders 


go J.     M.    W.    TURNER 

to  "get  the  answer  and  hurry  back,  mind  you!"  the  boy 
forgot  to  get  the  answer  and  to  hurry  back.  Then  another 
boy  was  despatched  after  the  first,  and  boy  Number  Two 
found  boy  Number  One  sitting,  with  staring  eyes  and  open 
mouth,  in  the  art-gallery  before  a  painting  of  Claude  Lor- 
raine's. When  boy  Number  One  was  at  last  forcibly  dragged 
away,  and  reached  the  shop  of  his  master,  he  got  his  ears 
well  cuffed  for  his  forgetfulness.  But  from  that  day  forth  he 
was  not  the  same  being  that  he  had  been  before  his  eyes  fell 
on  that  Claude  Lorraine. 

He  was  transformed,  as  much  so  as  was  Lazarus  after  he 
was  called  from  beyond  the  portals  of  death  and  had  come 
back  to  earth,  bearing  in  his  heart  the  secrets  of  the  grave. 
€J  From  that  time  Turner  thought  of  Claude  Lorraine  during 
the  day  and  dreamed  of  him  at  night,  and  he  stole  his  way 
into  every  exhibition  where  a  Claude  was  to  be  seen.  And 
now  I  wish  that  Claude  Lorraine  was  the  subject  of  this 
sketch,  as  well  as  Turner,  for  his  life  is  a  picture  full  of 
sweetest  poetry,  framed  in  a  world  of  dullest  prose. 
The  eyes  of  this  boy,  whom  they  had  thought  dreamy,  dull 
and  listless,  now  shone  with  a  different  light.  He  thirsted  to 
achieve,  to  do,  to  become — yes,  to  become  a  greater  painter 
than  Claude  Lorraine.  His  employer  saw  the  change  and 
smiled  at  it,  but  he  allowed  the  lad  to  put  in  backgrounds  and 
add  the  skies  to  cheap  prints,  just  because  the  youngster 
teased  to  do  it. 

Then  one  day  a  certain  patron  of  the  shop  came  and  looked 
over  the  shoulder  of  the  Turner  boy,  and  he  said,  "He  has 
skill — perhaps  talent." 


J.    M.    W.    TURNER 91 

And  I  think  that  the  recording  angel  should  give  this  man  a 
separate  page  on  the  Book  of  Remembrance  and  write  his 
name  in  illuminated  colors,  for  he  gave  young  Turner  access 
to  his  own  collection  and  to  his  library,  and  he  never  cuffed 
hun  nor  kicked  him  nor  called  him  dunce — whereat  the  boy 
was  much  surprised.  But  he  encouraged  the  youth  to  sketch 
a  picture  hi  water-colors  and  then  he  bought  the  picture  and 
paid  hun  ten  shillings  for  it;  and  the  name  of  this  man  was 
Doctor  Munro. 

The  next  year,  when  young  Turner  was  fourteen,  Doctor 
Munro  had  hun  admitted  to  the  Royal  Academy  as  a  student, 
and  hi  Seventeen  Hundred  Ninety  he  exhibited  a  water-color 
of  the  Archbishop's  palace  at  Lambeth. 
The  picture  took  no  prize,  and  doubtless  was  not  worthy  of 
one,  but  from  now  on  Joseph  M.  W.  Turner  was  an  artist, 
and  other  hands  had  to  sweep  the  barber-shop. 
But  he  sold  few  pictures — they  were  not  popular.  Other 
artists  scorned  him,  possibly  intuitively  fearing  him,  for 
mediocrity  always  fears  when  the  ghost  of  genius  does  not 
down  at  its  bidding. 

Then  Turner  was  accounted  unsociable;  besides  he  was 
ragged,  uncouth,  independent,  and  did  not  conform  to  the 
ways  of  society;  so  the  select  circle  cast  hun  out — more 
properly  speaking,  did  not  let  hun  in. 
Still  he  worked  on,  and  exhibited  at  every  Academy  Exhi- 
bition, yet  he  was  often  hungry,  and  the  London  fog  crept 
cold  and  damp  through  his  threadbare  clothes.  But  he  toiled 
on,  for  Claude  Lorraine  was  ever  before  him. 
In  Eighteen  Hundred  Two,  when  twenty-seven  years  of  age, 


92 J.     M.    W.    TURNER 

he  visited  France  and  made  a  tour  through  Switzerland, 
tramping  over  many  long  miles  with  his  painting-kit  on  his 
back,  and  he  brought  back  rich  treasures  in  way  of  sketches 
and  quickened  imagination.  C[  In  the  years  following  he  took 
many  such  trips,  and  came  to  know  Venice,  Rome,  Florence 
and  Paris  as  perfectly  as  his  own  London. 
When  thirty-three  years  of  age  he  was  still  worshiping  at  the 
shrine  of  Claude  Lorraine.  His  pictures  painted  at  this  time 
are  evidence  of  his  ideal,  and  his  book,  "Liber  Studiorum," 
issued  in  Eighteen  Hundred  Eight,  is  modeled  after  the 
"Liber  Veritatis."  But  the  book  surpasses  Claude's,  and 
Turner  knew  it,  and  this  may  have  led  him  to  burst  his 
shackles  and  cast  loose  from  his  idol.  For  in  Eighteen 
Hundred  Fifteen  we  find  him  working  according  to  his  own 
ideas,  showing  an  originality  and  audacity  in  conception  and 
execution  that  made  him  the  butt  of  the  critics,  and  caused 
consternation  to  rage  through  the  studios  of  competitors. 
Gradually,  it  dawned  upon  a  few  scattered  collectors  that 
things  so  strongly  condemned  must  have  merit,  for  why 
should  the  pack  bay  so  loudly  if  there  were  no  quarry!  So  to 
have  a  Turner  was  at  least  something  for  your  friends  to 
discuss  jt  jt 

Then  carriages  began  to  stop  before  the  dingy  building  at 
Forty-seven  Queen  Anne  Street,  and  broadcloth  and  satin 
mounted  the  creaking  stairs  to  the  studio.  It  happened  about 
this  time  that  Turner's  prices  began  to  increase.  Like  the 
sibyl  of  old,  if  a  customer  said,  "I  do  not  want  it, "  the  painter 
put  an  extra  ten  pounds  on  the  price.  For  "Dido  Building 
Carthage, "  Turner's  original  price  was  five  hundred  pounds. 


J.     M.    W.    TURNER 93 

People  came  to  see  the  picture  and  they  said,  "The  price  is 
too  high."  Next  day  Turner's  price  for  the  "Carthage"  was 
one  thousand  pounds.  Finally,  Sir  Robert  Peel  offered  the 
painter  five  thousand  pounds  for  the  picture,  but  Turner  said 
he  had  decided  to  keep  it  for  himself,  and  he  did. 
In  the  fore  part  of  his  career  he  sold  few  pictures — for  the 
simple  reason  that  no  one  wanted  them.  And  he  sold  few 
pictures  during  the  latter  years  of  his  life,  for  the  reason  that 
his  prices  were  so  high  that  none  but  the  very  rich  could  buy. 
First,  the  public  scorned  Turner.  Next,  Turner  scorned  the 
public.  In  the  beginning  it  would  not  buy  his  pictures,  and 
later  it  could  not. 

A  frivolous  public  and  a  shallow  press,  from  his  first  exhi- 
bition, when  fifteen  years  of  age,  to  his  last,  when  seventy, 
made  sport  of  his  originalities.  But  for  merit  there  is  a 
recompense  in  sneers,  and  a  benefit  in  sarcasms,  and  a 
compensation  in  hate;  for  when  these  things  get  too  pro- 
nounced a  champion  appears.  And  so  it  was  with  Turner. 
Next  to  having  a  Boswell  write  one's  life,  what  is  better  than 
a  Ruskin  to  uphold  one's  cause! 

Success  came  slowly;  his  wants  were  few,  but  his  ambition 
never  slackened,  and  finally  the  dreams  of  his  youth  became 
the  realities  of  his  manhood. 

At  twenty,  Turner  loved  a  beautiful  girl — they  became 
engaged.  He  went  away  on  a  tramp  sketching-tour  and  wrote 
his  ladylove  just  one  short  letter  each  month.  He  believed 
that  "absence  only  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder,"  not 
knowing  that  this  statement  is  only  the  vagary  of  a  poet. 
When  he  returned  the  lady  was  betrothed  to  another.  He 


94 J.     M.    W.    TURNER 

gave  the  pair  his  blessing,  and  remained  a  bachelor — a  very 
confirmed  bachelor. 

Perhaps,  however,  the  reason  his  fiancee  proved  untrue  was 
not  through  lack  of  the  epistles  he  wrote  her,  but  on  account 
of  them.  In  the  British  Museum  I  examined  several  letters 
written  by  Turner.  They  appeared  very  much  like  copy  for  a 
Josh  Billings  Almanac.  Such  originality  in  spelling,  punc- 
tuation and  use  of  capitals  1  It  was  admirable  in  its  unique- 
ness. Turner  did  not  think  in  words — he  could  only  think  in 
paint.  But  the  young  lady  did  not  know  this,  and  when  a 
letter  came  from  her  homely  little  lover  she  was  shocked, 
then  she  laughed,  then  she  showed  these  letters  to  a  nice 
young  man  who  was  clerk  to  a  fishmonger  and  he  laughed, 
then  they  both  laughed.  Then  this  nice  young  man  and  this 
beautiful  young  lady  became  engaged,  and  they  were  married 
at  Saint  Andrew's  on  a  lovely  May  morning.  And  they  lived 
happily  ever  afterward. 

Turner  was  small,  and  in  appearance  plain.  Yet  he  was  big 
enough  to  paint  a  big  picture,  and  he  was  not  so  homely  as 
to  frighten  away  all  beautiful  women.  But  Philip  Gilbert 
Hamerton  tells  us,  "Fortunate  in  many  things,  Turner  was 
lamentably  unfortunate  in  this:  that  throughout  his  whole 
life  he  never  came  under  the  ennobling  and  refining  influence 
of  a  good  woman. " 

Like  Plato,  Michelangelo,  Sir  Isaac  Newton  and  his  own 
Claude  Lorraine,  he  was  wedded  to  his  art.  But  at  sixty-five 
his  genius  suddenly  burst  forth  afresh,  and  his  work, 
Mr.  Ruskin  says,  at  that  time  exceeded  in  daring  brilliancy 
and  in  the  rich  flowering  of  imagination,  anything  that  he 


J.     M.    W.    TURNER 95 

had  previously  done.  Mr.  Ruskin  could  give  no  reason,  but 
rumor  says,  "A  woman." 

The  one  weakness  of  our  hero,  that  hung  to  him  for  life,  was 
the  idea  that  he  could  write  poetry.  The  tragedian  always 
thinks  he  can  succeed  in  comedy,  the  comedian  spends  hours 
in  his  garret  rehearsing  tragedy;  most  preachers  have  an 
idea  that  they  could  have  made  a  quick  fortune  in  business, 
and  many  business  men  are  very  sure  that  if  they  had  taken 
to  the  pulpit  there  would  now  be  fewer  empty  pews.  So  the 
greatest  landscape-painter  of  recent  times  imagined  himself 
a  poet.  Hamerton  says  that  for  remarkable  specimens  of 
grammar,  spelling  and  construction  Turner's  verse  would 
serve  well  to  be  given  to  little  boys  to  correct. 
One  spot  in  Turner's  life  over  which  I  like  to  linger  is  his 
friendship  with  Sir  Walter  Scott.  They  collaborated  in  the 
production  of  "Provincial  Antiquities,"  and  spent  many 
happy  hours  together  tramping  over  Scottish  moors  and 
mountains.  Sir  Walter  lived  out  his  days  in  happy  ignorance 
concerning  the  art  of  painting,  and  although  he  liked  the 
society  of  Turner,  he  confessed  that  it  was  quite  beyond  his 
ken  why  people  bought  his  pictures.  "And  as  for  your 
books,"  said  Turner,  "the  covers  of  some  are  certainly 
very  pretty." 

Yet  these  men  took  a  satisfaction  in  each  other's  society, 
such  as  brothers  might  enjoy,  but  without  either  man 
appreciating  the  greatness  of  the  other. 
Turner's  temperament  was  audacious,  self-centered,  self- 
reliant,  eager  for  success  and  fame,  yet  at  the  same  time 
scorning  public  opinion — a  paradox  often  found  in  the 


96 J.     M.    W.    TURNER 

artistic  mind  of  the  first  class;  silent  always — with  a  bitter 
silence,  disdaining  to  tell  his  meaning  when  the  critics  could 
not  perceive  it. 

He  was  above  all  things  always  the  artist,  never  the  realist. 
The  realist  pictures  the  things  he  sees;  the  artist  expresses 
that  which  he  feels.  Children,  and  all  simple  folk  who  use 
pen,  pencil  or  brush,  describe  the  things  they  behold.  As 
intellect  develops  and  goes  more  in  partnership  with  hand, 
imagination  soars,  and  things  are  outlined  that  no  man  can 
see  except  he  be  able  to  perceive  the  invisible.  To  appreciate 
a  work  of  art  you  must  feel  as  the  artist  felt. 
Now,  it  is  very  plain  that  the  vast  majority  of  people  are  not 
capable  of  this  high  sense  of  sublimity  which  the  creative 
artist  feels;  and  therefore  they  do  not  understand,  and  not 
understanding,  they  wax  merry,  or  cynical,  or  sarcastic,  or 
wrathful,  or  envious;  or  they  pass  by  unmoved.  And  I 
maintain  that  those  who  pass  by  unmoved  are  more  righteous 
than  they  who  scoff. 

If  I  should  attempt  to  explain  to  my  little  girl  the  awe  I  feel 
when  I  contemplate  the  miracle  of  maternity,  she  would 
probably  change  the  subject  by  prattling  to  me  about  a  kitten 
she  saw  lapping  milk  from  a  blue  saucer.  If  I  should  attempt 
to  explain  to  some  men  what  I  feel  when  I  contemplate  the 
miracle  of  maternity,  they  would  smile  and  turn  it  all  into 
an  unspeakable  jest.  Is  not  the  child  nearer  to  God  than  the 
man?  &  jt 

We  thus  see  why  to  many  Browning  is  only  a  joke,  Whitman 
an  eccentric,  Dante  insane  and  Turner  a  pretender.  These 
have  all  sought  to  express  things  which  the  many  can  not 


J.     M.    W.    TURNER 97 

feel,  and  consequently  they  have  been,  and  are,  the  butt  of 

jokes  and  jibes  innumerable.  "Except  ye  become  as  little 

children,"  etc. — and  yet  the  scoffers  are  often  people  of 

worth.  Nothing  so  shows  the  limitation  of  humanity  as  this : 

genius   often   does   not   appreciate   genius.   The   inspired, 

strangely  enough,  are  like  the  fools,  they  do  not  recognize 

inspiration  jt  j* 

An  Englishman  called  on  Voltaire  and  found  him  in  bed 

reading  Shakespeare. 

"What  are  you  reading?"  asked  the  visitor. 

"Your   Shakespeare!"   said   the  philosopher;   and   as   he 

answered  he  flung  the  book  across  the  room. 

"He  's  not  my  Shakespeare,"  said  the  Englishman. 

Greene,  Rymer,  Dryden,  Warburton  and  Doctor  Johnson 

used  collectively  or  individually  the  following  expressions 

in  describing  the  work  of  the  author  of  "Hamlet":  conceit, 

overreach,  word-play,  extravagance,  overdone,  absurdity, 

obscurity,  puerility,  bombast,  idiocy,  untruth,  improbability, 

drivel  jfc  j* 

Byron  wrote  from  Florence  to  Murray: 

"I  know  nothing  of  painting,  and  I  abhor  and  spit  upon  all 

saints  and  so-called  spiritual  subjects  that  I  see  portrayed  in 

these  churches." 

But  the  past  is  so  crowded  with  vituperation  that  it  is 

difficult  to  select — besides  that,  we  do  not  wish  to — but  let 

us  take  a  sample  of  arrogance  from  yesterday  to  prove  our 

point,  and  then  drop  the  theme  for  something  pleasanter  jt 

Pew  and  pulpit  have  fallen  over  each  other  for  the  privilege 

of  hitting  Darwin;  a  Bishop  warns  his  congregation  that 


98 J.     M.    W.    TURNER 

Emerson  is  "dangerous  " ;  Spurgeon  calls  Shelley  a  sensualist ; 
Doctor  Buckley  speaks  of  Susan  B.  Anthony  as  the  leader  of 
"the  short-haired";  Talmage  cracks  jokes  about  evolution, 
referring  feelingly  to  "monkey  ancestry";  and  a  prominent 
divine  of  England  writes  the  World's  Congress  of  Religions 
down  as  "pious  waxworks."  These  things  being  true,  and  all 
the  sentiments  quoted  coming  from  "good"  but  blindly 
zealous  men,  is  it  a  wonder  that  the  Artist  is  not  understood? 
<I  A  brilliant  picture,  called  "Cologne — Evening,"  attracted 
much  attention  at  the  Academy  Exhibition  of  Eighteen 
Hundred  Twenty-six.  One  day  the  people  who  so  often 
collected  around  Turner's  work  were  shocked  to  see  that  the 
beautiful  canvas  had  lost  its  brilliancy,  and  evidently  had 
been  tampered  with  by  some  miscreant.  A  friend  ran  to  inform 
Turner  of  the  bad  news :  "Don't  say  anything.  I  only  smirched 
it  with  lampblack.  It  was  spoiling  the  effect  of  Laurence's 
picture  that  hung  next  to  it.  The  black  will  all  wash  off  after 
the  Exhibition." 

And  his  tender  treatment  of  his  aged  father  shows  the 
gentle  side  of  his  nature.  The  old  barber,  whose  trembling 
hand  could  no  longer  hold  a  razor,  wished  to  remain  under 
his  son's  roof  in  guise  of  a  servant,  but  the  son  said,  "No;  we 
fought  the  world  together,  and  now  that  it  seeks  to  do  me 
honor,  you  shall  share  all  the  benefits."  And  Turner  never 
smiled  when  the  little,  wizened,  old  man  would  whisper  to 
some  visitor,  "Yes,  yes;  Joseph  is  the  greatest  artist  in 
England,  and  I  am  his  father. " 

Turner  had  a  way  of  sending  ten-pound  notes  in  blank  enve- 
lopes to  artists  in  distress,  and  he  did  this  so  frequently  that 


J.     M.    W.    TURNER 99 

the  news  got  out  finally,  but  never  through  Turner's  telling, 
and  then  he  had  to  adopt  other  methods  of  doing  good  by 
stealth  Jt  jt 

I  do  not  contend  that  Turner's  character  was  immaculate, 
but  still  it  is  very  probable  that  worldlings  do  not  appreciate 
what  a  small  part  of  this  great  genius  touched  the  mire. 
To  prove  the  sordidness  of  the  man,  one  critic  tells,  with 
visage  awfully  solemn,  how  Turner  once  gave  an  engraving 
to  a  friend  and  then,  after  a  year,  sent  demanding  it  back. 
But  to  a  person  with  a  groat's  worth  of  wit  the  matter  is 
plain:  the  dreamy,  abstracted  artist,  who  bumped  into  his 
next-door  neighbors  on  the  street  and  never  knew  them, 
furgot  he  had  given  the  picture  and  believed  he  had  only 
loaned  it.  This  is  made  still  more  apparent  by  the  fact  that, 
when  he  sent  for  the  engraving  in  question,  he  administered  a 
rebuke  to  the  man  for  keeping  it  so  long.  The  poor  dullard 
who  received  the  note  flew  into  a  rage — returned  the  picture 
— sent  his  compliments  and  begged  the  great  artist  to  "take 
your  picture  and  go  to  the  devil. " 

Then  certain  scribblers,  who  through  mental  disease  had 
lost  the  capacity  for  mirth,  dipped  their  pen  in  aqua  fortis 
and  wrote  of  the  "innate  meanness,"  the  "malice  prepense" 
and  the  "  Old  Adam"  which  dwelt  hi  the  heart  of  Turner.  No 
one  laughed  except  a  few  Irishmen,  and  an  American  or  two, 
who  chanced  to  hear  of  the  story. 

Of  Turner's  many  pictures  I  will  mention  hi  detail  but  two, 
both  of  which  are  to  be  seen  on  the  walls  of  the  National 
Gallery.  First,  "The  Old  Temeraire."  This  warship  had  been 
sold  out  of  service  and  was  being  towed  away  to  be  broken 


ioo J.     M.    W.    TURNER 

up.  The  scene  was  photographed  on  Turner's  brain,  and  he 
immortalized  it  on  canvas.  We  can  not  do  better  than 
borrow  the  words  of  Mr.  Ruskin : 

"Of  all  pictures  not  visibly  involving  human  pain,  this  is 
the  most  pathetic  ever  painted. 

"The  utmost  pensiveness  which  can  ordinarily  be  given  to  a 
landscape  depends  on  adjuncts  of  ruin,  but  no  ruin  was  ever 
so  affecting  as  the  gliding  of  this  ship  to  her  grave.  This 
particular  ship,  crowned  in  the  Trafalgar  hour  of  trial  with 
chief  victory — surely,  if  ever  anything  without  a  soul 
deserved  honor  or  affection  we  owe  them  here.  Surely,  some 
sacred  care  might  have  been  left  in  our  thoughts  for  her; 
some  quiet  space  amid  the  lapse  of  English  waters!  Nay, 
not  so.  We  have  stern  keepers  to  trust  her  glory  to — the  fire 
and  the  worm.  Nevermore  shall  sunset  lay  golden  robe  upon 
her,  nor  starlight  tremble  on  the  waves  that  part  at  her 
gliding.  Perhaps  where  the  low  gate  opens  to  some  cottage 
garden,  the  tired  traveler  may  ask,  idly,  why  the  moss  grows 
so  green  on  the  rugged  wood ;  and  even  the  sailor's  child  niay 
not  know  that  the  night  dew  lies  deep  in  the  war-rents  of 
the  old  Temeraire. " 

"The  Burial  of  Sir  David  WilMe  at  Sea"  has  brought  tears 
to  many  eyes.  Yet  there  is  no  burial.  The  ship  is  far  away  in 
the  gloom  of  the  offing;  you  can  not  distinguish  a  single 
figure  on  her  decks;  but  you  behold  her  great  sails  standing 
out  against  the  leaden  blackness  of  the  night  and  you  feel 
that  out  there  a  certain  scene  is  being  enacted.  And  if  you 
listen  closely  you  can  hear  the  solemn  voice  of  the 
captain  as  he  reads  the  burial  service.  Then  there  is 


J.     M.    W.    TURNER 101 

a  pause — a  swift,  sliding  sound — a  splash,  and  all  is  over. 
C  Turner  left  to  the  British  Nation  by  his  will  nineteen  thou- 
sand pencil  and  water-color  sketches  and  one  hundred  large 
canvases.  These  pictures  are  now  to  be  seen  in  the  National 
Gallery  in  rooms  set  apart  and  sacred  to  Turner's  work.  For 
fear  it  may  be  thought  that  the  number  of  sketches  mentioned 
above  is  a  misprint,  let  us  say  that  if  he  had  produced  one 
picture  a  day  for  fifty  years  it  would  not  equal  the  number 
of  pieces  bestowed  by  his  will  on  the  Nation. 
This  of  course  takes  no  account  of  the  pictures  sold  during 
his  lif etime,  and,  as  he  left  a  fortune  of  one  hundred  forty-four 
thousand  pounds  ^seven  hundred  twenty  thousand  dollars), 
we  may  infer  that  not  all  his  pictures  were  given  away. 
At  Chelsea  I  stood  in  the  little  room  where  he  breathed  his 
last,  that  bleak  day  in  Eighteen  Hundred  Fifty-one.  The 
unlettered  but  motherly  old  woman  who  took  care  of  him  in 
those  last  days  never  guessed  his  greatness;  none  in  the 
house  or  the  neighborhood  knew. 

To  them  he  was  only  Mr.  Booth,  an  eccentric  old  man  of 
moderate  means  who  liked  to  muse,  read,  and  play  with 
children.  He  had  no  callers,  no  friends;  he  went  to  the  city 
every  day  and  came  back  at  night.  He  talked  but  little,  he 
was  absent-minded,  he  smoked  and  thought  and  smiled  and 
muttered  to  himself.  He  never  went  to  church;  but  once  one 
of  the  lodgers  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  God. 
"God,  God — what  do  I  know  of  God,  what  does  any  one!  He 
is  our  life — He  is  the  All,  but  we  need  not  fear  Him — 
all  we  can  do  is  to  speak  the  truth  and  do  our  work.  Tomorrow 
we  go — where?  I  know  not,  but  I  am  not  afraid." 


102 J.     M.    W.    TURNER 

Of  art,  to  these  strangers  he  would  never  speak.  Once  they 
urged  him  to  go  with  them  to  an  exhibition  at  Kensington, 
but  he  smiled  feebly  as  he  lit  his  pipe  and  said,  "An  Art 
Exhibition?  No,  no ;  a  man  can  show  on  a  canvas  so  little  of 
what  he  feels,  it  is  not  worth  the  while. " 
At  last  he  died — passed  peacefully  away — and  his  attorney 
came  and  took  charge  of  his  remains. 
Many  are  the  hard  words  that  have  been  flung  off  by  heedless 
tongues  about  Turner's  taking  an  assumed  name  and  living 
in  obscurity,  but  "what  you  call  fault  I  call  accent."  Surely, 
if  a  great  man  and  world-famous  desires  to  escape  the 
flatterers  and  the  silken  mesh  of  so-called  society  and  live 
the  life  of  simplicity,  he  has  a  right  to  do  so.  Again,  Turner 
was  a  very  rich  man  in  his  old  age ;  he  did  much  for  strug- 
gling artists  and  assisted  aspiring  merit  in  many  ways.  So  it 
came  about  that  his  mail  was  burdened  with  begging  letters, 
and  his  life  made  miserable  by  appeals  from  impecunious 
persons,  good  and  bad,  and  from  churches,  societies  and 
associations  without  number.  He  decided  to  flee  them  all; 
and  he  did.  <J  The  "Carthage  "  already  mentioned  is  one  of  his 
finest  works,  and  he  esteemed  it  so  highly  that  he  requested 
that  when  death  came,  his  body  should  be  buried,  wrapped 
in  its  magnificent  folds.  But  the  wish  was  disregarded. 
His  remains  rest  in  the  crypt  of  Saint  Paul's,  beside  the  dust  of 
Reynolds.  His  statue,  in  marble,  adorns  a  niche  in  the  great 
cathedral,  and  his  name  is  secure  high  on  the  roll  of  honor. 
<f  And  if  for  no  other  reason,  the  name  and  fame  of  Chelsea 
should  be  deathless  as  the  home  of  Turner. 


JONATHAN  SWIFT 


THEY  are  but  few  and  meanspirited  that  live  in  peace  with  all 
men.— "Tale  of  a  Tub." 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


<*»» 


1 F  writing  books  about  Dean  Swift  there  is 
no  end,"  quoth  Mr.  Birrell.  The  reason  is 
plain:  of  no  other  prominent  writer  who 
has  lived  during  the  past  two  hundred  years 
do  we  know  so  much.  His  life  lies  open  to 
us  in  many  books.  Boswell  did  not  write 
his  biography,  but  Johnson  did.  Then  fol- 
lowed whole  schools  of  little  fishes,  some 
of  whom  wrote  like  whales  jt  But  among 
the  works  of  genuine  worth  and  merit,  with 
Swift  for  a  subject,  we  have  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  nineteen  volumes,  and  lives  by  Craik, 
Mitford,  Forster,  Collins  and  Leslie  Stephen. 
<I  The  positive  elements  in  Swift's  character 
make  him  a  most  interesting  subject  to  men 
and  women  who  are  yet  on  earth  for  he  was 
essentially  of  the  earth,  earthy.  And  until 
we  are  shown  that  the  earth  is  wholly  bad, 
we  shall  find  much  to  amuse,  much  to 
instruct,  much  to  admire — aye,  much  to 
pity — in  the  life  of  Jonathan  Swift. 
His  father  married  at  twenty.  His  income 
matched  his  years — it  was  just  twenty 
pounds  per  annum.  His  wife  was  a  young 
girl,  bright,  animated,  intelligent. 
In  a  few  short  months  this  girl  carried  in 
her  arms  a  baby.  This  baby  was  wrapped 
in  a  tattered  shawl  and  cried  piteously  from 
hunger,  for  the  mother  had  not  enough  to 


io8 JONATHAN     SWIFT 

eat.  She  was  cold,  and  sick,  and  in  disgrace.  Her  husband, 
too,  was  ill  and  sorely  in  debt.  It  was  Midwinter. 
When  Spring  came,  and  the  flowers  blossomed,  and  the  birds 
mated,  and  warm  breezes  came  whispering  softly  from  the 
South,  and  all  the  earth  was  glad,  the  husband  of  this  child- 
wife  was  in  his  grave,  and  she  was  alone.  Alone?  No;  she 
carried  in  her  tired  arms  the  hungry  babe,  and  beneath  her 
heart  she  felt  the  faint  flutter  of  another  life. 
But  to  be  in  trouble  and  in  Ireland  is  not  so  bad  after  all, 
for  the  Irish  people  have  great  and  tender  hearts ;  and  even 
if  they  have  not  much  to  bestow  in  a  material  way,  they  can 
give  sympathy,  and  they  do. 

So  the  girl  was  cared  for  by  kind  kindred,  and  on  November 
Thirtieth,  Sixteen  Hundred  Sixty-seven,  at  Number  Seven, 
Hoey's  Court,  Dublin,  the  second  baby  was  born. 
Only  a  little  way  from  Hoey's  Court  is  Saint  Patrick's 
Cathedral.  On  that  November  day,  as  the  tones  from  the 
clanging  chimes  fell  on  the  weary  senses  of  the  young  mother, 
there  in  her  darkened  room,  little  did  she  think  that  the  puny 
bantling  she  held  to  her  breast  would  yet  be  the  Dean  of  the 
great  church  whose  bells  she  heard;  and  how  could  she 
anticipate  a  whisper  coming  to  her  from  the  far-off  future : 
"Of  writing  books  about  your  babe  there  is  no  end!" 

>HE  man-child  was  given  to  an  old  woman  to  care  for, 
and  he  had  the  ability,  even  then,  it  seems,  to  win 
affection.  The  foster-mother  loved  him  and  she  stole 

him  away,  carrying  him  off  to  England. 

Charity  ministered  to  his  needs;  charity  gave  him  his  educa- 


JONATHAN     SWIFT 109 

tion.  When  Swift  was  twenty-one  years  old  he  went  to  see 
his  mother.  Her  means  were  scanty  to  the  point  of  hardship, 
but  so  buoyant  was  her  mind  that  she  used  to  declare  that 
she  was  both  rich  and  happy — and  being  happy  she  was 
certainly  rich.  She  was  a  rare  woman.  Her  spirit  was  inde- 
pendent, her  mind  cultivated,  her  manner  gentle  and  refined, 
and  she  was  endowed  with  a  keen  sense  of  humor. 
From  her,  the  son  derived  those  qualities  which  have  made 
bun  famous.  No  man  is  greater  than  his  mother;  but  the 
sons  of  brave  women  do  not  always  make  brave  men.  In 
one  quality  Swift  was  lamentably  inferior  to  his  mother — 
he  did  not  have  her  capacity  for  happiness.  He  had  wit;  she 
had  humor. 

We  have  seen  how  Swift's  father  sickened  and  died.  The 
world  was  too  severe  for  him,  its  buffets  too  abrupt,  its 
burden  too  heavy,  and  he  gave  up  the  fight  before  the  battle 
had  really  begun.  This  lack  of  courage  and  extreme  sensitive- 
ness are  seen  in  the  son.  But  so  peculiar,  complex  and 
wonderful  is  this  web  of  life,  that  our  very  blunders,  weak- 
nesses and  mistakes  are  woven  in  and  make  the  fabric 
stronger.  If  Swift  had  possessed  only  his  mother's  merits, 
without  his  father's  faults,  he  would  never  have  shaken 
the  world  with  laughter,  and  we  should  never  have  heard 
of  him. 

In  her  lowliness  and  simplicity  the  mother  of  Swift  was 
cpntent.  She  did  her  work  in  her  own  little  way.  She  smiled 
at  folly,  and  each  day  she  thanked  Heaven  that  her  lot  was 
no  worse.  Not  so  her  son.  He  brooded  in  sullen  silence;  he 
cursed  Fate  for  making  him  a  dependent,  and  even  in  his 


iio JONATHAN     SWIFT 

youth  he  scorned  those  who  benefited  him.  This  was  a  very 
human  proceeding. 

Many  hate,  but  few  have  a  fine  capacity  for  scorn.  Their 
hate  is  so  vehement  that  when  hurled  it  falls  short.  Swift's 
scorn  was  a  beautifully  winged  arrow,  with  a  poisoned  tip. 
Some  who  were  struck  did  not  at  the  time  know  it. 
His  misanthropy  defeated  his  purpose,  thwarted  his  ambition, 
ruined  his  aims,  and — made  his  name  illustrious. 
Swift  wished  for  churchly  preferment,  but  he  had  not  the 
patience  to  wait.  He  imagined  that  others  were  standing  in 
his  way,  and  of  course  they  were ;  for  under  the  calm  exterior 
of  things  ecclesiastic,  there  is  often  a  strife,  a  jealousy  and 
a  competition  more  rabid  than  in  commerce.  To  succeed  in 
winning  a  bishopric  requires  a  sagacity  as  keen  as  that 
required  to  become  a  Senator  of  Massachusetts  or  the  Governor 
of  New  York.  The  man  bides  his  time,  makes  himself  popular, 
secures  advocates,  lubricates  the  way,  pulls  the  wires,  and 
slides  noiselessly  into  place. 

Swift  lacked  diplomacy.  When  matters  did  not  seem  to 
progress  he  grew  wrathful,  seized  his  pen  and  stabbed  with 
it.  But  as  he  wrote,  the  ludicrousness  of  the  whole  situation 
came  over  him  and,  instead  of  cursing  plain  curses,  he  held 
his  adversary  up  to  ridicule!  And  this  ridicule  is  so  active, 
the  scorn  so  mixed  with  wit,  the  shafts  so  finely  feathered 
with  truth,  that  it  is  the  admiration  of  mankind.  Vitriol 
mixed  with  ink  is  volatile.  Then  what?  We  just  run  Swift 
through  a  coarse  sieve  to  take  out  the  lumps  of  Seventeenth 
Century  refuse,  and  then  we  give  him  to  children  to  make 
them  laugh.  Surely  no  better  use  can  be  made  of  pessimists. 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 111 

Verily,  the  author  of  Gulliver  wrote  for  one  purpose,  and 
we  use  his  work  for  another.  He  wished  for  office,  he  got 
contempt;  he  tried  to  subdue  his  enemies,  they  subdued  him; 
he  worked  for  the  present,  and  he  won  immortality. 
Said  Heinrich  Heine,  prone  on  his  bed  in  Paris:  "The 
wittiest  sarcasms  of  mortals  are  only  an  attempt  at  jesting 
when  compared  with  those  of  the  great  Author  of  the 
Universe — the  Aristophanes  of  Heaven!" 
Wise  men  over  and  over  have  wasted  good  ink  and  paper 
in  bewailing  Swift's  malice  and  coarseness.  But  without 
these  very  elements  which  the  wise  men  bemoan,  Swift 
would  be  for  us  a  cipher.  Yet  love  is  life  and  hate  is  death, 
so  how  can  spite  benefit?  The  answer  is  that,  in  certain 
forms  of  germination,  frost  is  as  necessary  as  sunshine: 
so  some  men  have  qualities  that  lie  dormant  until  the 
coldness  of  hate  bursts  the  coarse  husk  of  indifference. 
Cf  But  while  hate  may  animate,  only  love  inspires.  Swift 
might  have  stood  at  the  head  of  the  Church  of  England; 
but  even  so,  he  would  be  only  a  unit  in  a  long  list  of  names, 
and  as  it  is,  there  is  only  one  Swift.  Mr.  Talmage  averred 
that  not  ten  men  in  America  knew  the  name  of  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury  until  his  son  wrote  a  certain  book 
entitled  "Dodo."  In  putting  out  this  volume,  young  Mr. 
Benson  not  only  gave  us  the  strongest  possible  argument 
favoring  the  celibacy  of  the  clergy,  but  at  the  same  time, 
if  Talmage's  statement  is  correct,  he  made  known  his 
father's  name. 

In  all  Swift's  work,  save  "The  Journal  to  Stella,"  the  anima- 
ting motive  seems  to  have  been  to  confound  his  enemies ;  and 


ii2 JONATHAN     SWIFT 

according  to  the  well-known  line  in  that  hymn  sung  wherever 
the  Union  Jack  flies,  we  must  believe  this  to  be  a  perfectly 
justifiable  ambition.  But  occasionally  on  his  pages  we  find 
gentle  words  of  wisdom  that  were  meant  evidently  for  love's 
eyes  alone.  There  is  much  that  is  pure  boyish  frolic,  and 
again  and  again  there  are  clever  strokes  directed  at  folly. 
He  has  shot  certain  superstitions  through  with  doubt,  and 
in  his  manner  of  dealing  with  error  he  has  proved  to  us  a 
thing  it  were  well  not  to  forget:  that  pleasantry  is  more 
efficacious  than  vehemence. 

Let  me  name  one  incident  by  way  of  proof — the  well-known 
one  of  Partridge,  the  almanac-maker.  This  worthy  cobbler 
was  an  astrologer  of  no  mean  repute.  He  foretold  events 
with  much  discretion.  The  ignorant  bought  his  almanacs, 
and  many  believed  in  them  as  a  Bible — in  fact,  astrology 
was  enjoying  a  "boom." 

Swift  came  to  London  and  found  that  Partridge's  predictions 
were  the  theme  at  the  coffeehouses.  He  saw  men  argue 
and  wax  wroth,  grow  red  in  the  face  as  they  talked  loud 
and  long  about  nothing — just  nothing.  The  whole  thing 
struck  Swift  as  being  very  funny ;  and  he  wrote  an  announce- 
ment of  his  intention  to  publish  a  rival  almanac.  He  explained 
that  he,  too,  was  an  astrologer,  but  an  honest  one,  while 
Partridge  was  an  impostor  and  a  cheat;  in  fact,  Partridge 
foretold  only  things  which  every  one  knew  would  come  true. 
As  for  himself,  he  could  discern  the  future  with  absolute 
certainty,  and  to  prove  to  the  world  his  power  he  would  now 
make  a  prophecy.  In  substance,  it  was  as  follows:  "My  first 
prediction  is  but  a  trifle;  it  relates  to  Partridge,  the  almanac- 


JONATHAN     SWIFT 113 

maker.  I  have  consulted  the  star  of  his  nativity,  and  find 
that  he  will  die  on  the  Twenty-ninth  day  of  March,  next." 
This  was  signed,  "Isaac  Bickerstaff,"  and  duly  issued  in 
pamphlet  form.  It  had  such  an  air  of  sincerity  that  both 
the  believers  and  the  scoffers  read  it  with  interest. 
The  Thirtieth  of  March  came,  and  another  pamphlet  from 
"Isaac  Bickerstaff"  appeared,  announcing  the  fulfilment  of 
the  prophecy.  It  related  how  toward  the  end  of  March  Par- 
tridge began  to  languish;  how  he  grew  ill  and  at  last  took 
to  his  bed,  and,  his  conscience  then  smiting  him,  he  confessed 
to  the  world  that  he  was  a  fraud  and  a  rogue,  that  all  his 
prophecies  were  impositions:  he  then  passed  away. 
Partridge  was  wild  with  rage,  and  immediately  replied  in  a 
manifesto  declaring  that  he  was  alive  and  well  and  moreover 
was  alive  on  March  Twenty-ninth. 

To  this  "Bickerstaff"  replied  in  a  pamphlet  more  seriously 
humorous  than  ever,  reaffirming  that  Partridge  was  dead, 
and  closing  with  the  statement  that,  "If  an  uninformed 
carcass  still  walks  about  calling  itself  Partridge,  •  I  do 
not  in  any  way  consider  myself  responsible  for  that."  jt 
The  joke  set  all  London  on  a  grin.  Wherever  Partridge  went 
he  was  met  with  smiles  and  jeers,  and  astrology  became 
only  a  jest  to  a  vast  number  of  people  who  had  formerly 
believed  in  it  seriously. 

When  Benjamin  Franklin  started  his  "Poor  Richard's 
Almanac,"  twenty-five  years  later,  in  the  first  issue  he 
prophesied  the  death  of  one  Dart  who  set  the  pace  at  that 
time  as  almanac-maker  in  America.  The  man  was  to 
expire  on  the  afternoon  of  October  Seventeenth,  Seven- 


ii4 JONATHAN     SWIFT 

teen  Hundred  Thirty-three,  at  three  twenty-nine  o'clock. 
CJ  Dart,  being  somewhat  of  a  joker  himself,  came  out  with 
an  announcement  that  he,  too,  had  consulted  the  oracle, 
and  found  he  would  live  until  October  Twenty-sixth,  and 
possibly  longer. 

On  October  Eighteenth,  Franklin  announced  Dart's  death, 
and  explained  that  it  occurred  promptly  on  time,  all  as 
prophesied. 

Yet  Dart  lived  to  publish  many  almanacs ;  but  Poor  Richard 
got  his  advertisement,  and  many  staid,  broad-brimmed 
Philadelphians  smiled  who  had  never  smiled  before — not 
only  smiled  but  subscribed. 

Benjamin  Franklin  was  a  great  and  good  man,  as  any  man 
must  be  who  fathers  another's  jokes,  introducing  these 
orphaned  children  to  the  world  as  his  own. 
Perhaps  no  one  who  has  written  of  Swift  knew  him  so  well 
as  Delany.  And  this  writer,  who  seems  to  have  possessed  a 
judicial  quality  far  beyond  most  men,  has  told  us  that  Swift 
was  moral  hi  conduct  to  the  point  of  asceticism.  His  deport- 
ment was  grave  and  dignified,  and  his  duties  as  a  priest  were 
always  performed  with  exemplary  diligence.  He  visited  the 
sick,  regularly  administered  the  sacraments,  and  was  never 
known  to  absent  himself  from  morning  prayers. 
When  Harley  was  Lord  Treasurer,  Swift  seems  to  have  been 
on  the  topmost  crest  of  the  wave  of  popularity.  Invitations 
from  nobility  flowed  in  upon  him,  beautiful  women  deigned 
to  go  in  search  of  his  society,  royalty  recognized  him.  And 
yet  all  this  time  he  was  only  a  country  priest  with  a  liking 
for  literature. 


JONATHAN     SWIFT 115 

Collins  tells  us  that  the  reason  for  his  popularity  is  plain: 
"Swift  was  one  of  the  kings  of  the  earth.  Like  Pope  Innocent 
the  Third,  like  Chatham,  he  was  one  to  whom  the  world 
involuntarily  pays  tribute." 

His  will  was  a  will  of  adamant;  his  intellect  so  keen  that 
it  impressed  every  one  who  approached  him;  his  temper 
singularly  stern,  dauntless  and  haughty.  But  his  wit  was 
never  filled  with  gaiety:  he  was  never  known  to  laugh. 
Amid  the  wildest  uproar  that  his  sallies  caused,  he  would 
sit  with  face  austere — unmoved. 

Personally,  Swift  was  a  gentleman.  When  he  was  scurrilous, 
abusive,  ribald,  malicious,  it  was  anonymously.  Is  this  to 
his  credit  ?  I  should  not  say  so,  but  if  a  man  is  indecent  and 
he  hides  behind  a  (<nom  de  plume,"  it  is  at  least  presumptive 
proof  that  he  is  not  dead  to  shame. 
Leslie  Stephen  tells  us  that  Swift  was  a  Churchman  to  the 
backbone.  No  man  who  is  a  "Churchman  to  the  backbone" 
is  ever  very  pious:  the  spirit  maketh  alive,  but  the  letter 
killeth.  One  looks  in  vain  for  traces  of  spirituality  in  the 
Dean.  His  sermons  are  models  of  churchly  commonplace 
and  full  of  the  stock  phrases  of  a  formal  religion.  He  never 
bursts  into  flame.  Yet  he  most  thoroughly  and  sincerely 
believed  in  religion.  "I  believe  in  religion — it  keeps  the 
masses  in  check.  And  then  I  uphold  Christianity  because  if  it 
is  abolished  the  stability  of  the  Church  might  be  endangered," 
he  said  «£t  jt, 

Philip  asked  the  eunuch  a  needless  question  when  he  inquired, 
"Understandest  thou  what  thou  readest?"  No  one  so  poorly 
sexed  as  Swift  can  comprehend  spiritual  truth:  spirituality 


ii6 JONATHAN     SWIFT 

and  sexuality  are  elements  that  are  never  separated.  Swift 
was  as  incapable  of  spirituality  as  he  was  of  the  "grand 
passion." 

The  Dean  had  affection;  he  was  a  warm  friend;  he  was 
capable  even  of  a  degree  of  love,  but  his  sexual  and  spiritual 
nature  was  so  cold  and  calculating  that  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  sacrifice  love  to  churchly  ambition. 
He  argued  that  the  celibacy  of  the  Catholic  clergy  is  a  wise 
expediency.  The  bachelor  physician  and  the  unmarried 
priest  have  an  influence  among  gentle  womankind,  young 
or  old,  married  or  single,  that  a  benedict  can  never  hope 
for.  Why  this  is  so  might  be  difficult  to  explain,  but  discerning 
men  know  the  fact.  In  truth,  when  a  priest  marries  he  should 
at  once  take  a  new  charge,  for  if  he  remains  with  his  old 
flock  a  goodly  number  of  his  "lady  parishioners,"  in  ages 
varying  from  seventeen  to  seventy,  will  with  fierce  indigna- 
tion rend  his  reputation. 

Swift  was  as  wise  as  a  serpent,  but  not  always  as  harmless 
as  a  dove.  He  was  making  every  effort  to  secure  his  miter 
and  crosier:  he  had  many  women  friends  in  London  and 
elsewhere  who  had  influence.  Rather  than  run  the  risk  of 
losing  this  influence  he  never  acknowledged  Stella  as  his 
wife.  Choosing  fame  rather  than  love,  he  withered  at  the 
heart,  then  died  at  the  top. 

The  life  of  every  man  is  a  seamless  garment — its  woof  his 
thoughts,  its  warp  his  deeds.  When  for  him  the  roaring  loom 
of  time  stops  and  the  thread  is  broken,  foolish  people  some- 
times point  to  certain  spots  in  the  robe  and  say,  "Oh,  why 
did  he  not  leave  that  out!"  not  knowing  that  every  action 


JONATHAN     SWIFT ITJ 

of  man  is  a  sequence  from  off  Fate's  spindle.  CJ  Let  us  accept 
the  work  of  genius  as  we  find  it;  not  bemoaning  because 
it  is  not  better,  but  giving  thanks  because  it  is  so  good. 

WELL-FED,  rollicking  priest  is  Father  O'Toole  of 
Dublin,  with  a  big,  round  face,  a  double  chin,  and  a 
brogue  that  you  can  cut  with  a  knife. 
My  letter  of  introduction  from  Monseigneur  Satolli  caused 
him  at  once  to  bring  in  a  large,  suspicious,  black  bottle 
and  two  glasses.  Then  we  talked — talked  of  Ireland's 
wrongs  and  woman's  rights,  and  of  all  the  Irishmen  in 
America  whom  I  was  supposed  to  know.  We  spoke  of  the 
illustrious  Irishmen  who  had  passed  on,  and  I  mentioned  a 
name  that  caused  the  holy  father  to  spring  from  his  chair 
in  indignation. 

"Shwift  is  it!  Shwift!  No,  me  lad,  don't  go  near  him!  He 
was  the  divil's  own,  the  very  worsht  that  ever  followed  the 
swish  of  a  petticoat.  No,  no;  if  ye  go  to  his  grave  it'll  bring 
ye  bad  luck  for  a  year.  It 's  Tom  Moore  ye  want — Tom  was 
the  bye.  Arrah!  now,  and  it's  meself  phat'll  go  wid  ye." 
<I  And  so  the  reverend  father  put  on  a  long,  black  coat  and 
his  Saint  Patrick's  Day  hat,  and  we  started.  We  were  met 
at  the  gate  by  a  delegation  of  "shpalpeens"  that  had  located 
me  on  the  inside  of  the  house  and  were  lying  in  wait. 
All  American  travelers  in  Ireland  are  supposed  to  be  million- 
aires, and  this  may  possibly  explain  the  lavish  attention  that 
is  often  tendered  them.  At  any  rate,  various  members  of  the 
delegation  wished  "long  life  to  the  iligant  'Merican  gintle- 
man,"  and  hinted  in  unmistakable  terms  that  pence  would 


ii8 JONATHAN     SWIFT 

be  acceptable.  The  holy  father  applied  his  cane  vigorously 
to  the  ragged  rears  of  the  more  presumptuous,  and  bade 
them  begone,  but  still  they  followed  and  pressed  close  about. 
€jf  "Here,  I'll  show  you  how  to  get  rid  of  the  dirty  gang," 
said  his  holiness.  "Have  ye  a  penny,  I  don't  know?" 
I  produced  a  handful  of  small  change,  which  the  father 
immediately  took  and  tossed  into  the  street.  Instantly  there 
was  a  heterogeneous  mass  of  young  Hibernians  piled  up 
in  the  dirt  in  a  grand  struggle  for  spoils.  It  reminded  me  of 
football  incidents  I  had  seen  at  fair  Harvard.  In  the  mean- 
time, we  escaped  down  a  convenient  alley  and  crossed  the 
River  Liffey  to  Old  Dublin;  inside  the  walls  of  the  old  city, 
through  crooked  lanes  and  winding  streets  that  here  and 
there  showed  signs  of  departed  gentility,  where  now  was  only 
squalor,  want  and  vice,  until  we  came  to  Number  Twelve  Angier 
Street,  a  quaint,  three-story  brick  building  now  used  as  a 
"public."  In  the  wall  above  the  door  is  a  marble  slab  with 
this  inscription:  "Here  was  born  Thomas  Moore,  on  the 
Twenty-eighth  day  of  May,  Seventeen  Hundred  Seventy- 
eight."  Above  this  in  a  niche  is  a  bust  of  the  poet. 
Tom's  father  was  a  worthy  greengrocer  who,  according  to 
the  author  of  "Lalla  Rookh,"  always  gave  good  measure 
and  full  count.  It  was  ever  a  cause  of  regret  to  the  elder 
Moore  that  his  son  did  not  show  sufficient  capacity  to  be 
trusted  safely  with  the  business.  <§  The  upper  rooms  of  the 
house  were  shown  to  us  by  an  obliging  landlady.  Father 
O'Toole  had  been  here  before,  and  led  the  way  to  a  snug 
little  chamber  and  explained  that  in  this  room  the  future 
poet  of  Ireland  was  found  under  one  of  his  father's  cabbage- 


JONATHAN     SWIFT 119 

leaves.  <I  We  descended  to  the  neat  little  barroom  with  its 
sanded  floor  and  polished  glassware  and  shining  brass.  The 
holy  father  ordered  'arf-and-'arf  at  my  expense  and  recited 
one  of  Moore's  ballads.  The  landlady  then  gave  us  Byron's 
"Here's  a  Health  to  Thee,  Tom  Moore."  A  neighbor  came 
in.  Then  we  had  more  ballads,  more  'arf-and-'arf,  a  selection 
from  "Lalla  Rookh"  and  various  tales  of  the  poet's  early 
life,  which  possibly  would  be  hard  to  verify. 
And  as  the  tumult  raged  the  smoke  of  battle  gave  me 
opportunity  to  slip  away.  I  crossed  the  street,  turned  down 
one  block,  and  entered  Saint  Patrick's  Cathedral. 
Great,  roomy,  gloomy,  solemn  temple,  where  the  rumble 
of  city  traffic  is  deadened  to  a  faint  hum: 

"  Without,  the  world's  unceasing  noises  rise, 
Turmoil,  disquietude  and  busy  fears ; 
Within,  there  are  the  sounds  of  other  years, 
Thoughts  full  of  prayer  and  solemn  harmonies 
Which  imitate  on  earth  the  peaceful  skies." 

Other  worshipers  were  there.  Standing  beside  a  great  stone 
pillar  I  could  make  them  out  kneeling  on  the  tiled  floor. 
Gradually,  my  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  subdued 
light,  and  right  at  my  feet  I  saw  a  large  brass  plate  set  in 
the  floor  and  on  it  only  this : 

Swift 

Died  Oct.  19,  1745 
Aged  78 

On  the  wall  near  is  a  bronze  tablet,  the  inscription  of  which, 
in  Latin,  was  dictated  by  Swift  himself: 


120 JONATHAN     SWIFT 

"  Here  lies  the  body  of  Jonathan  Swift,  Dean  of  this  Cathedral, 
where  fierce  indignation  can  no  longer  rend  his  heart.  Go! 
wayfarer,  and  imitate,  if  thou  canst,  one  who,  as  far  as  in 

him  lay,  was  an  earnest  champion  of  liberty " 

Above  this  is  a  fine  bust  of  the  Bean,  and  to  the  right  is 
another  tablet: 

"  Underneath  lie  interred  the  mortal  remains  of  Mrs.  Hester 
Johnson,  better  known  to  the  world  as  'Stella,'  under  which 
she  is  celebrated  in  the  writings  of  Doctor  Jonathan  Swift, 
Dean  of  this  Cathedral.  She  was  a  person  of  extraordinary 
endowments  and  accomplishments,  in  body,  mind  and 
behavior;  justly  admired  and  respected  by  all  who  knew 
her,  on  account  of  her  eminent  virtues  as  well  as  for  her 
great  natural  and  acquired  perfections." 
These  were  suffering  souls  and  great.  Would  they  have  been 
so  great  had  they  not  suffered?  Who  can  tell?  Were  the 
waters  troubled  in  order  that  they  might  heal  the  people  ? 
<I  Did  Swift  misuse  this  excellent  woman,  is  a  question  that 
has  been  asked  and  answered  again  and  again. 
A  great  author  has  written: 

"A  woman,  a  tender,  noble,  excellent  woman,  has  a  dog's 
heart.  She  licks  the  hand  that  strikes  her.  And  wrong  nor 
cruelty  nor  injustice  nor  disloyalty  can  cause  her  to  turn." 
§  Death  in  pity  took  Stella  first;  took  her  in  the  loyalty  of 
love  and  the  fulness  of  faith  from  a  world  which  for  love 
has  little  recompense,  and  for  faith  small  fulfilment. 
Stella  was  buried  by  torchlight,  at  midnight,  on  the  Thirtieth 
day  of  January,  Seventeen  Hundred  Twenty-eight.  Swift 
was  sick  at  the  time,  and  wrote  in  his  journal:  "This  is  the 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


121 


night  of  her  funeral,  and  I  am  removed  to  another  apartment 

that  I  may  not  see  the  light  in  the  church  which  is  just  over 

against  my  window."  But  hi  his  imagination  he  saw  the 

gleaming  torches  as  their  dull  light  shone  through  the  colored 

windows,  and  he  said:  "They  will  soon  do  as  much  for  me." 

tj  But  seventeen  years  came  crawling  by  before  the  torches 

flared,  smoked  and  gleamed  as  the  mourners  chanted  a 

requiem,  and  the  clods  fell  on  the  coffin,  and  their  echoes 

intermingled  with  the  solemn  voice  of  the  priest  as  he  said, 

"Dust  to  dust,  ashes  to  ashes." 

In  Eighteen  Hundred  Thirty-five,  the  graves  were  opened 

and  casts  taken  of  the  skulls.  The  top  of  Swift's  skull  had 

been  sawed  off  at  the  autopsy,  and  a  bottle  hi  which  was  a 

parchment  setting  forth  the  facts  was  inserted  hi  the  head 

that  had  conceived  "Gulliver's  Travels." 

I  examined  the  casts.  The  woman's  head  is  square  and 

shapely.  Swift's  head  is  a  refutation  of  phrenology,  being 

small,  sloping  and  ordinary. 

The  bones  of  Swift  and  Stella  were  placed  hi  one  coffin, 

and  now  rest  under  three  feet  of  concrete,  beneath  the 

floor  of  Saint  Patrick's. 

So  sleep  the  lovers  joined  in  death. 


WALT  WHITMAN 


WALT      WHITMAN 


ALL  seems  beautiful  to  me. 
I  can  repeat  over  to  men  and  women,  You  have  done  inch 

good  to  me  I  would  do  the  same  to  you, 
I  will  recruit  for  myself  and  you  as  I  go. 
I  will  scatter  myself  among  men  and  women  as  I  go, 
I  will  toss  a  new  gladness  and  roughnecs  among  them. 

— Song  of  the  Open  Road 


WALT    WHITMAN 


f  AX  NORDAU  wrote  a  book— wrote  it  with 
his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  a  dash  of  vitriol 
in  the  ink,  and  with  a  pen  that  scratched. 
<j[  And  the  first  critic  who  seemed  to  place 
a  just  estimate  on  the  work  was  Mr.  Zang- 
will  (he  who  has  no  Christian  name). 
Mr.  Zangwill  made  an  attempt  to  swear  out 
a  "writ  de  lunatico  inquirendo"  against 
his  Jewish  brother,  on  the  ground  that  the 
first  symptom  of  insanity  is  often  the  delu- 
sion that  others  are  insane;  and  this  being 
so,  Doctor  Nordau  was  not  a  safe  subject 
to  be  at  large.  But  the  Assize  of  Public 
Opinion  denied  the  petition,  and  the  dear 
people  bought  the  book  at  from  three  to 
five  dollars  a  copy.  Printed  in  several 
languages,  its  sales  have  mounted  to  a 
hundred  thousand  volumes,  and  the 
author's  net  profit  is  full  forty  thousand 
dollars.  No  wonder  is  it  that,  with  pockets 
full  to  bursting,  Doctor  Nordau  goes  out 
behind  the  house  and  laughs  uproariously 
whenever  he  thinks  of  how  he  has  worked 
the  world! 

If  Doctor  Talmage  is  the  Barnum  of  The- 
ology, surely  we  may  call  Doctor  Nordau 
the  Barnum  of  Science.  His  agility  in 
manipulating  facts  is  equal  to  Hermann's 
now-you-see-it  and  now-you-don't  with 


128 WALT    WHITMAN 

pocket-handkerchiefs.  Yet  Hermann's  exhibition  is  worth 
the  admittance  fee,  and  Nordau's  book  (seemingly  written 
in  collaboration  with  Jules  Verne  and  Mark  Twain)  would 
be  cheap  for  a  dollar  <&  But  what  I  object  to  is  Professor 
Hermann's  disciples  posing  as  Sure-Enough  Materializing 
Mediums  and  Professor  Lombroso's  followers  calling  them- 
selves Scientists,  when  each  goes  forth  without  scrip  or  purse 
with  no  other  purpose  than  to  supply  themselves  with  both. 
<g  Yet  it  was  Barnum  himself  who  said  that  the  public 
delights  in  being  humbugged,  and  strange  it  is  that  we 
will  not  allow  ourselves  to  be  thimblerigged  without  pay- 
ing for  the  privilege. 

Nordau's  success  hinged  on  his  audacious  assumption  that 
the  public  knew  nothing  of  the  Law  of  Antithesis.  Yet  Plato 
explained  that  the  opposites  of  things  look  alike,  and  some- 
times are  alike — and  that  was  quite  a  while  ago. 
The  multitude  answered,  "Thou  hast  a  devil."  Many  of  them 
said,  "He  hath  a  devil  and  is  mad."  Festus  said  with  a  loud 
voice,  "Paul,  thou  art  beside  thyself."  And  Nordau  shouts 
in  a  voice  more  heady  than  that  of  Pilate,  more  throaty  than 
that  of  Festus,  "Mad — Whitman  was — mad  beyond  the 
cavil  of  a  doubt  1" 

In  Eighteen  Hundred  Sixty-two,  Lincoln,  looking  out  of  a 
window  (before  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloomed)  on  one 
of  the  streets  of  Washington,  saw  a  workingman  in  shirt- 
sleeves go  by.  Turning  to  a  friend,  the  President  said,  "There 
goes  a  MAN!"  The  exclamation  sounds  singularly  like  that 
of  Napoleon  on  meeting  Goethe.  But  the  Corsican's  remark 
was  intended  for  the  poet's  ear,  while  Lincoln  did  not  know 


WALT    WHITMAN 129 

who  his  man  was,  although  he  came  to  know  him  afterward. 
€J  Lincoln  in  his  early  days  was  a  workingman  and  an 
athlete,  and  he  never  quite  got  the  idea  out  of  his  head 
(and  I  am  glad)  that  he  was  still  a  hewer  of  wood.  He  once 
told  George  William  Curtis  that  he  more  than  half  expected 
yet  to  go  back  to  the  farm  and  earn  his  daily  bread  by  the 
work  that  his  hands  found  to  do;  he  dreamed  of  it  nights, 
and  whenever  he  saw  a  splendid  toiler,  he  felt  like  hailing 
the  man  as  brother  and  striking  hands  with  him.  When 
Lincoln  saw  Whitman  strolling  majestically  past,  he  took 
him  for  a  stevedore  or  possibly  the  foreman  of  a  construction 
gang  &  o* 

Whitman  was  fifty-one  years  old  then.  His  long,  flowing 
beard  was  snow-white,  and  the  shock  that  covered  his  Jove- 
like  head  was  iron-gray.  His  form  was  that  of  an  Apollo 
who  had  arrived  at  years  of  discretion.  He  weighed  an  even 
two  hundred  pounds  and  was  just  six  feet  high.  His  plain, 
check,  cotton  shirt  was  open  at  the  throat  to  the  breast; 
and  he  had  an  independence,  a  self-sufficiency,  and  withal  a 
cleanliness,  a  sweetness  and  a  gentleness,  that  told  that, 
although  he  had  a  giant's  strength,  he  did  not  use  it  like 
a  giant.  Whitman  used  no  tobacco,  neither  did  he  apply 
hot  and  rebellious  liquors  to  his  blood  and  with  unblushing 
forehead  woo  the  means  of  debility  and  disease.  Up  to  his 
fifty-third  year  he  had  never  known  a  sick  day,  although  at 
thirty  his  hair  had  begun  to  whiten.  He  had  the  look  of  age 
in  his  youth  and  the  look  of  youth  in  his  age  that  often 
marks  the  exceptional  man. 
But  at  fifty-three  his  splendid  health  was  crowded  to  the 


130 WALT    WHITMAN 

breaking  strain.  How?  Through  caring  for  wounded,  sick 
and  dying  men,  hour  after  hour,  day  after  day,  through  the 
long,  silent  watches  of  the  night.  From  Eighteen  Hundred 
Sixty-four  to  the  day  of  his  death  in  Eighteen  Hundred 
Ninety-two,  he  was,  physically,  a  man  in  ruins.  But  he  did 
not  wither  at  the  top.  Through  it  all  he  held  the  healthy 
optimism  of  boyhood,  carrying  with  him  the  perfume  of 
the  morning  and  the  lavish  heart  of  youth. 
Doctor  Bucke,  who  was  superintendent  of  a  hospital  for 
the  insane  for  fifteen  years,  and  the  intimate  friend  of 
Whitman  all  the  time,  has  said:  "His  build,  his  stature, 
his  exceptional  health  of  mind  and  body,  the  size  and  form 
of  his  features,  his  cleanliness  of  mind  and  body,  the  grace 
of  his  movements  and  gestures,  the  grandeur,  and  especially 
the  magnetism,  of  his  presence;  the  charm  of  his  voice,  his 
genial,  kindly  humor;  the  simplicity  of  his  habits  and  tastes, 
his  freedom  from  convention,  the  largeness  and  the  beauty 
of  his  manner;  his  calmness  and  majesty;  his  charity  and 
forbearance — his  entire  unresentfulness  under  whatever 
provocation;  his  liberality,  his  universal  sympathy  with 
humanity  in  all  ages  and  lands,  his  broad  tolerance,  his 
catholic  friendliness,  and  his  unexampled  faculty  of  attracting 
affection,  all  prove  his  perfectly  proportioned  manliness." 
CJ  But  Whitman  differed  from  the  disciple  of  Lombroso  in 
two  notable  particulars:  He  had  no  quarrel  with  the  world, 
and  he  did  not  wax  rich.  "One  thing  thou  lackest,  0  Walt 
Whitman!"  we  might  have  said  to  the  poet;  "you  are  not 
a  financier."  He  died  poor.  But  this  is  no  proof  of  degeneracy, 
save  on  'Change  &  When  the  children  of  Count  Tolstoy 


WALT     WHITMAN 131 

endeavored  to  have  him  adjudged  insane,  the  Court  denied 
the  application  and  voiced  the  wisest  decision  that  ever 
came  out  of  Russia:  A  man  who  gives  away  his  money  is 
not  necessarily  more  foolish  than  he  who  saves  it. 
And  with  Horace  L.  Traubel  I  assert  that  Whitman  was 
the  sanest  man  I  ever  saw. 

OME  men  make  themselves  homes;  and  others  there 
be  who  rent  rooms.  Walt  Whitman  was  essentially 
a  citizen  of  the  world:  the  world  was  his  home  and 
mankind  were  his  friends.  There  was  a  quality  in  the  man 
peculiarly  universal:  a  strong,  virile  poise  that  asked  for 
nothing,  but  took  what  it  needed. 

He  loved  men  as  brothers,  yet  his  brothers  after  the  flesh 
understood  him  not;  he  loved  children — they  turned  to  him 
instinctively — but  he  had  no  children  of  his  own;  he  loved 
women,  and  yet  this  strongly  sexed  and  manly  man  never 
loved  a  woman  j*  And  I  might  here  say  as  Philip  Gilbert 
Hamerton  said  of  Turner,  "He  was  lamentably  unfortunate 
in  this :  throughout  his  whole  life  he  never  came  under  the 
ennobling  and  refining  influence  of  a  good  woman." 
It  requires  two  to  make  a  home.  The  first  home  was  made 
when  a  woman,  cradling  in  her  loving  arms  a  baby,  crooned 
a  lullaby.  All  the  tender  sentimentality  we  throw  around  a 
place  is  the  result  of  the  sacred  thought  that  we  live  there 
with  some  one  else.  It  is  "our"  home.  The  home  is  a  tryst 
— the  place  where  we  retire  and  shut  the  world  out.  Lovers 
make  a  home,  just  as  birds  make  a  nest,  and  unless 
a  man  knows  the  spell  of  the  divine  passion  I  hardly  see 


13* WALT    WHITMAN 

how  he  can  have  a  home  at  all.  He  only  rents  a  room. 
<J  Camden  is  separated  from  the  city  of  Philadelphia  by  the 
Delaware  River.  Camden  lies  low  and  flat — a  great,  sandy, 
monotonous  waste  of  straggling  buildings.  Here  and  there 
are  straight  rows  of  cheap  houses,  evidently  erected  by 
staid,  broad-brimmed  speculators  from  across  the  river, 
with  eyes  on  the  main  chance.  But  they  reckoned  ill,  for 
the  town  did  not  boom.  Some  of  these  houses  have  marble 
steps  and  white,  barn-door  shutters,  that  might  withstand 
a  siege.  When  a  funeral  takes  place  in  one  of  these  houses, 
the  shutters  are  tied  with  strips  of  mournful,  black  alpaca 
for  a  year  and  a  day.  Engineers,  dockmen,  express-drivers 
and  mechanics  largely  make  up  the  citizens  of  Camden.  Of 
course,  Camden  has  its  smug  corner  where  prosperous 
merchants  most  do  congregate:  where  they  play  croquet 
in  the  front  yards,  and  have  window-boxes,  and  a  piano  and 
veranda-chairs  and  terra-cotta  statuary;  but  for  the  most 
part  the  houses  of  Camden  are  rented,  and  rented  cheap  jt 
Many  of  the  domiciles  are  frame  and  have  the  happy  tumble- 
down look  of  the  back  streets  in  Charleston  or  Richmond 
— those  streets  where  the  white  trash  merges  off  into  pros- 
perous colored  aristocracy.  Old  hats  do  duty  in  keeping  out 
the  fresh  air  where  Providence  has  interfered  and  broken 
out  a  pane;  blinds  hang  by  a  single  hinge;  bricks  on  the 
chimney-tops  threaten  the  passers-by;  stringers  and  posts 
mark  the  place  where  proud  picket  fences  once  stood — 
the  pickets  having  gone  for  kindling  long  ago.  In  the  warm, 
Summer  evenings,  men  in  shirt-sleeves  sit  on  the  front 
steps  and  stolidly  smoke,  while  children  pile  up  sand  in  the 


WALT    WHITMAN 133 

streets  and  play  in  the  gutters.  <jj  Parallel  with  Mickle 
Street,  a  block  away,  are  railway-tracks.  There  noisy 
switch-engines  that  never  keep  Sabbath,  puff  back  and 
forth,  day  and  night,  sending  showers  of  soot  and  smoke 
when  the  wind  is  right  (and  it  usually  is)  straight  over 
Number  328,  where,  according  to  John  Addington  Symonds 
and  William  Michael  Rossetti,  lived  the  mightiest  seer  of 
the  century — the  man  whom  they  rank  with  Socrates, 
Epictetus,  Saint  Paul,  Michelangelo  and  Dante. 
It  was  in  August  of  Eighteen  Hundred  Eighty-three  that  I 
first  walked  up  that  little  street — a  hot,  sultry  Summer 
evening.  There  had  been  a  shower  that  turned  the  dust  of 
the  unpaved  roadway  to  mud.  The  air  was  close  and  muggy. 
The  houses,  built  right  up  to  the  sidewalks,  over  which,  in 
little  gutters,  the  steaming  sewage  ran,  seemed  to  have 
discharged  their  occupants  into  the  street  to  enjoy  the  cool 
of  the  day.  Barefooted  children  by  the  score  paddled  in  the 
mud.  All  the  steps  were  filled  with  loungers;  some  of  the 
men  had  discarded  not  only  coats  but  shirts  as  well,  and  now 
sat  in  flaming  red  underwear,  holding  babies. 
They  say  that  "woman's  work  is  never  done,"  but  to  the 
women  of  Mickle  Street  this  does  not  apply — but  stay! 
perhaps  their  work  IS  never  done.  Anyway,  I  remember 
that  women  sat  on  the  curbs  in  calico  dresses  or  leaned 
out  of  the  windows,  and  all  seemed  supremely  free  from  care. 
*I  "Can  you  tell  me  where  Mr.  Whitman  lives  1"  I  asked  a 
portly  dame  who  was  resting  her  elbows  on  a  window-sill. 
«J"Who?" 
"Mr.  Whitman!'* 


134 WALT    WHITMAN 

"You  mean  Walt  Whitman?" 
"Yes."jt  Jt 

"Show  the  gentleman,  Molly;  he'll  give  you  a  nickel,  I'm 
surel"jfc  jfc 

I  had  not  seen  Molly.  She  stood  behind  me,  but  as  her  mother 
spoke  she  seized  tight  hold  of  one  of  my  fingers,  claiming  me 
as  her  lawful  prey,  and  all  the  other  children  looked  on  with 
envious  eyes  as  little  Molly  threw  at  them  glances  of  scorn 
and  marched  me  off.  Molly  was  five,  going  on  six,  she  told 
me.  She  had  bright-red  hair,  a  grimy  face  and  little  chapped 
feet  that  made  not  a  sound  as  we  walked.  She  got  her  nickel 
and  carried  it  in  her  mouth,  and  this  made  conversation 
difficult.  After  going  one  block  she  suddenly  stopped,  squared 
me  around  and  pointing  said,  "Them  is  he !"  and  disappeared. 
fj  In  a  wheeled  rattan  chair,  in  the  hallway,  a  little  back 
from  the  door  of  a  plain,  weather-beaten  house,  sat  the 
coatless  philosopher,  his  face  and  head  wreathed  in  a  tumult 
of  snow-white  hair. 

I  had  a  little  speech,  all  prepared  weeks  before  and  committed 
to  memory,  that  I  intended  to  repeat,  telling  him  how  I  had 
read  his  poems  and  admired  them.  And  further  I  had  stored 
away  in  my  mind  a  few  blades  from  "Leaves  of  Grass"  that 
I  purposed  to  bring  out  at  the  right  time  as  a  sort  of  certificate 
of  character.  But  when  that  little  girl  jerked  me  right-about- 
face  and  heartlessly  deserted  me,  I  stared  dumbly  at  the  man 
whom  I  had  come  a  hundred  miles  to  see.  I  began  angling 
for  my  little  speech,  but  could  not  fetch  it. 
"Hello!"  called  the  philosopher,  out  of  the  white  aureole; 
"Hello!  come  here,  boy!" 


WALT    WHITMAN 135 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  as  I  took  it  there  was  a  grasp 
with  meaning  in  it. 

"Don't  go  yet,  Joe,"  he  said  to  a  man  seated  on  the  step 
smoking  a  cob  pipe. 

"The  old  woman  's  calling  me,"  said  the  swarthy  Joe.  Joe 
evidently  held  truth  lightly.  "So  long,  Walt!" 
"Good-by,  Joe.  Sit  down,  lad;  sit  down!" 
I  sat  in  the  doorway  at  his  feet. 

"Now  is  n't  it  queer — that  fellow  is  a  regular  philosopher 
and  works  out  some  great  problems,  but  he's  ashamed  to 
express  'em.  He  could  no  more  give  you  his  best  than  he 
could  fly.  Ashamed,  I  s'pose,  ashamed  of  the  best  that  is  in 
him.  We  are  all  a  little  that  way — all  but  me — I  try  to  write 
my  best,  regardless  of  whether  the  thing  sounds  ridiculous 
or  not — regardless  of  what  others  think  or  say  or  have  said. 
Ashamed  of  our  holiest,  truest  and  best!  Is  it  not  too  bad? 
CJ  "You  are  twenty-five  now?  Well,  boy,  you  may  grow 
until  you  are  thirty  and  then  you  will  be  as  wise  as  you  ever 
will  be.  Haven't  you  noticed  that  men  of  sixty  have  no 
clearer  vision  than  men  of  forty?  One  reason  is  that  we  have 
been  taught  that  we  know  all  about  life  and  death  and  the 
mysteries  of  the  grave.  But  the  main  reason  is  that  we  are 
ashamed  to  shove  out  and  be  ourselves.  Jesus  expressed  His 
own  individuality  perhaps  more  than  any  man  we  know  of, 
and  so  He  wields  a  wider  influence  than  any  other.  And  this 
though  we  only  have  a  record  of  just  twenty-seven  days  of 
His  life. 

"Now,  that  fellow  that  just  left  is  an  engineer,  and  he  dreams 
some  beautiful  dreams;  but  he  never  expresses  them  to  any 


136 WALT    WHITMAN 

one— only  hints  them  to  me,  and  this  only  at  twilight.  He  is 
like  a  weasel  or  a  mink  or  a  whippoorwill — he  comes  out 
only  at  night. 

"  'If  the  weather  was  like  this  all  the  time,  people  would 
never  learn  to  read  and  write,1  said  Joe  to  me  just  as  you 
arrived.  And  is  n't  that  so  ?  Here  we  can  count  a  hundred 
people  up  and  down  this  street,  and  not  one  is  reading,  not 
one  but  that  is  just  lolling  about,  except  the  children  and 
they  are  only  happy  when  playing  in  the  dirt.  Why,  if  this 
tropical  weather  should  continue  we  would  all  slip  back 
into  South  Sea  Islanders  1  You  can  raise  good  men  only  in 
a  little  strip  around  the  North  Temperate  Zone — when  you 
get  out  of  the  track  of  a  glacier  a  tender-hearted,  sympathetic 
man  of  brains  is  an  accident." 

Then  the  old  man  suddenly  ceased  and  I  imagined  that  he 
was  following  the  thought  out  in  his  own  mind.  We  sat 
silent  for  a  space.  The  twilight  fell,  and  a  lamplighter  lit 
the  street  lamp  on  the  corner.  He  stopped  an  instant  to 
salute  the  poet  cheerily  as  he  passed.  The  man  sitting  on  the 
doorstep,  across  the  street,  smoking,  knocked  the  ashes  out 
of  his  pipe  on  his  boot-heel  and  went  indoors.  Women  called 
their  children,  who  did  not  respond,  but  still  played  on.  Then 
the  creepers  were  carried  in,  to  be  fed  their  bread-and-milk 
and  put  to  bed;  and,  shortly,  shrill  feminine  voices  ordered 
the  other  children  indoors,  and  some  obeyed. 
The  night  crept  slowly  on.  <|  I  heard  old  Walt  chuckle  behind 
me,  talking  incoherently  to  himself,  and  then  he  said,  "You 
are  wondering  why  I  live  in  such  a  place  as  this?" 
"Yes;  that  is  exactly  what  I  was  thinking  of!" 


WALT    WHITMAN 137 

"You  think  I  belong  in  the  country,  in  some  quiet,  shady 
place.  But  all  I  have  to  do  is  to  shut  my  eyes  and  go  there. 
No  man  loves  the  woods  more  than  I — I  was  born  within 
sound  of  the  sea — down  on  Long  Island,  and  I  know  all 
the  songs  that  the  seashell  sings.  But  this  babble  and  babel 
of  voices  pleases  me  better,  especially  since  my  legs  went 
on  a  strike,  for  although  I  can't  walk,  you  see  I  still  mix 
with  the  throng,  so  I  suffer  no  loss.  In  the  woods,  a  man 
must  be  all  hands  and  feet.  I  like  the  folks,  the  plain,  igno- 
rant, unpretentious  folks ;  and  the  youngsters  that  come  and 
slide  on  my  cellar-door  do  not  disturb  me  a  bit.  I  'm  different 
from  Carlyle — you  know  he  had  a  noise-proof  room  where 
he  locked  himself  in.  Now,  when  a  huckster  goes  by,  crying 
his  wares,  I  open  the  blinds,  and  often  wrangle  with  the 
fellow  over  the  price  of  things.  But  the  rogues  have  got  into 
a  way  lately  of  leaving  truck  for  me  and  refusing  pay.  Today 
an  Irishman  passed  in  three  quarts  of  berries  and  walked 
off  pretending  to  be  mad  because  I  offered  to  pay.  When  he 
was  gone,  I  beckoned  to  the  babies  over  the  way — they  came 
over  and  we  had  a  feast.  <I  "Yes,  I  like  the  folks  around  here ; 
I  like  the  women,  and  I  like  the  men,  and  I  like  the  babies, 
and  I  like  the  youngsters  that  play  in  the  alley  and  make 
mud-pies  on  my  steps.  I  expect  to  stay  here  until  I  die." 
"You  speak  of  death  as  a  matter  of  course — you  are  not 
afraid  to  die?" 

"Oh,  no,  my  boy;  death  is  as  natural  as  life,  and  a  deal 
kinder.  But  it  is  all  good — I  accept  it  all  and  give  thanks 
— you  have  not  forgotten  my  chant  to  death?" 
"Not  1 1" 


138 WALT    WHITMAN 

I  repeated  a  few  lines  from  "Drum-Taps."  ^f  He  followed 
me,  rapping  gently  with  his  cane  on  the  floor,  and  with 
little  interjectory  remarks  of  "That's  so!"  "Very  true!" 
"Good,  good!"  And  when  I  faltered  and  lost  the  lines 
he  picked  them  up  where  "The  voice  of  my  spirit  tallied 
the  song  of  the  bird."  In  a  strong,  clear  voice,  but  a  voice 
full  of  sublime  feeling,  he  repeated: 

"Come,  lovely  and  soothing  Death, 

Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving,  arriving, 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 

Sooner  or  later,  delicate  Death. 

Praised  be  the  fathomless  universe 

For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowledge  curious, 

And  for  love,  sweet  love — but  praise!  praise!  praise 

For  the  sure  enwinding  arms  of  cool,  enfolding  Death. 

Dark  Mother,  always  gliding  near  with  soft  feet, 

Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of  fullest  welcome? 

Then  I  chant  for  thee,  I  glorify  thee  above  all, 

I  bring  thee  a  song  that  when  thou  must  indeed  come,  come  unfal- 
teringly. 

Approach,  strong  deliveress, 

When  it  is  so,  when  thou  hast  taken  them 

I  joyously  sing  the  death, 

Lost  in  the  loving,  floating  ocean  of  thee, 

Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  bliss,  O  Death. 

From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades, 

Dances  for  thee  I  propose,  saluting  thee,  adornments  and  feastings 
for  thee, 

And  the  sights  of  the  open  landscape  and  the  high  spread  sky  are 
fitting, 

And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thoughtful  night. 

The  night  in  silence  under  many  a  star, 


WALT    WHITMAN 139 

The  ocean  shore  and  the  husky  whispering  wave   whose  voice  I 

know, 

And  the  soul  turning  to  thee,  O  vast  and  well-veil'd  Death, 
And  the  body  gratefully  nestling  close  to  thee. 
Over  the  tree-tops  I  float  thee  a  song, 
Over  the  rising  and  sinking  waves,  over  the  myriad  fields  and  the 

prairies  wide, 
Over  the  dense-packed  cities  all,  and  the  teeming  wharves,  and 

ways, 
I  float  this  carol  with  joy,  with  joy  to  thee,  O  Death." 

The  last  playing  youngster  had  silently  disappeared  from 
the  streets.  The  doorsteps  were  deserted — save  where  across 
the  way  a  young  man  and  maiden  sat  in  the  gloaming,  con- 
versing in  low  monotone. 
The  clouds  had  drifted  away. 

A  great,  yellow  star  shone  out  above  the  chimney-tops  in 
the  East. 
I  arose  to  go. 

"I  wish  you'd  come  oftener — I  see  you  so  seldom,  lad," 
said  the  old  man,  half -plaintively. 

I  did  not  explain  that  we  had  never  met  before — that  I  had 
come  from  New  York  purposely  to  see  him.  He  thought  he 
knew  me.  And  so  he  did — as  much  as  I  could  impart.  The 
rest  was  irrelevant.  As  to  my  occupation  or  name,  what 
booted  it! — he  had  no  curiosity  concerning  me.  I  grasped 
his  outstretched  hand  in  both  of  my  own. 
He  said  not  a  word;  neither  did  I. 

I  turned  and  made  my  way  to  the  ferry — past  the  whispering 
lovers  on  the  doorsteps,  and  over  the  railway-tracks  where 
the  noisy  engines  puffed.  As  I  walked  on  board  the  boat,  the 


i4o WALT    WHITMAN 

wind  blew  up  cool  and  fresh  from  the  West.  The  star  in  the 
East  grew  brighter,  and  other  stars  came  out,  reflecting 
themselves  like  gems  in  the  dark  blue  of  the  Delaware. 
There  was  a  soft  sublimity  in  the  sound  of  the  bells  that 
came  echoing  over  the  waters.  My  heart  was  very  full, 
for  I  had  felt  the  thrill  of  being  in  the  presence  of  a  great 
and  loving  soul. 

It  was  the  first  time  and  the  last  that  I  ever  saw  Walt 
Whitman  jt  jt 

fOST  writers  bear  no  message:  they  carry  no  torch. 
Sometimes  they  excite  wonder,  or  they  amuse  and 
divert — divert  us  from  our  work.  To  be  diverted  to 
a  certain  degree  may  be  well,  but  there  is  a  point  where 
earth  ends  and  cloudland  begins,  and  even  great  poets 
occasionally  befog  the  things  they  would  reveal. 
Homer  was  seemingly  blind  to  much  simple  truth;  Virgil 
carries  you  away  from  earth;  Horace  was  undone  without 
his  Maecenas;  Dante  makes  you  an  exile;  Shakespeare  was 
singularly  silent  concerning  the  doubts,  difficulties  and 
common  lives  of  common  people;  Byron's  Corsair  life  does 
not  help  you  in  your  toil,  and  in  his  fight  with  English  Bards 
and  Scotch  Reviewers  we  crave  neutrality;  to  be  caught 
in  the  meshes  of  Pope's  "Dunciad"  is  not  pleasant;  and 
Lowell's  "Fable  for  Critics"  is  only  another  "Dunciad." 
But  above  all  other  poets  who  have  ever  lived,  the  author 
of  "Leaves  of  Grass"  was  the  poet  of  humanity. 
Milton  knew  all  about  Heaven,  and  Dante  conducts  us 
through  Hell,  but  it  was  left  for  Whitman  to  show  us  Earth. 


WALT    WHITMAN 141 

His  voice  never  goes  so  high  that  it  breaks  into  an  impotent 
falsetto,  neither  does  it  growl  and  snarl  at  things  it  does 
not  understand  and  not  understanding  does  not  like.  He 
was  so  great  that  he  had  no  envy,  and  his  insight  was  so 
sure  that  he  had  no  prejudice.  He  never  boasted  that  he 
was  higher,  nor  claimed  to  be  less  than  any  of  the  other  sons 
of  men.  He  met  all  on  terms  of  absolute  equality,  mixing 
with  the  poor,  the  lowly,  the  fallen,  the  oppressed,  the 
cultured,  the  rich — simply  as  brother  with  brother.  And 
when  he  said  to  an  outcast,  "Not  till  the  sun  excludes  you 
will  I  exclude  you,"  he  voiced  a  sentiment  worthy  of  a  god. 
<j[  He  was  brother  to  the  elements,  the  mountains,  the  seas, 
the  clouds,  the  sky.  He  loved  them  all  and  partook  of  them 
all  in  his  large,  free,  unselfish,  untrammeled  nature.  His 
heart  knew  no  limits,  and  feeling  his  feet  mortised  in  granite 
and  his  footsteps  tenoned  in  infinity  he  knew  the  amplitude 
of  time  jt  jt 

Only  the  great  are  generous;  only  the  strong  are  forgiving. 
Like  Lot's  wife,  most  poets  look  back  over  their  shoulders ; 
and  those  who  are  not  looking  backward  insist  that  we  shall 
look  into  the  future,  and  the  vast  majority  of  the  whole 
scribbling  rabble  accept  the  precept,  "Man  never  is,  but 
always  to  be  blest." 

We  grieve  for  childhood's  happy  days,  and  long  for  sweet 
rest  in  Heaven  and  sigh  for  mansions  in  the  skies.  And  the 
people  about  us  seem  so  indifferent,  and  our  friends  so 
lukewarm;  and  really  no  one  understands  us,  and  our 
environment  queers  our  budding  spirituality  and  the  frost 
of  jealousy  nips  our  aspirations:  "0  Paradise,  0  Paradise, 


142 WALT    WHITMAN 

the  world  is  growing  old ;  who  would  not  be  at  rest  and  free 
where  love  is  never  cold."  So  sing  the  fearsome  dyspeptics 
of  the  stylus.  0  anemic  he,  you  bloodless  she,  nipping  at 
crackers,  sipping  at  tea,  why  not  consider  that  although 
evolutionists  tell  us  where  we  came  from,  and  theolo- 
gians inform  us  where  we  are  going  to,  yet  the  only  thing 
we  are  really  sure  of  is  that  we  are  here! 
The  present  is  the  perpetually  moving  spot  where  history 
ends  and  prophecy  begins.  It  is  our  only  possession :  the  past 
we  reach  through  lapsing  memory,  halting  recollection, 
hearsay  and  belief;  we  pierce  the  future  by  wistful  faith 
or  anxious  hope,  but  the  present  is  beneath  our  feet. 
Whitman  sings  the  beauty  and  the  glory  of  the  present. 
He  rebukes  our  groans  and  sighs — bids  us  look  about  on 
every  side  at  the  wonders  of  creation,  and  at  the  miracles 
within  our  grasp.  He  lifts  us  up,  restores  us  to  our  own, 
introduces  us  to  man  and  Nature,  and  thus  infuses  into  us 
courage,  manly  pride,  self-reliance,  and  the  strong  faith 
that  comes  when  we  feel  our  kinship  with  God. 
He  was  so  mixed  with  the  universe  that  his  voice  took  on 
the  sway  of  elemental  integrity  and  candor.  Absolutely 
honest,  this  man  was  unafraid  and  unashamed,  for  Nature 
has  neither  apprehension,  shame  nor  vainglory.  In  "Leaves 
of  Grass,"  Whitman  speaks  as  all  men  have  ever  spoken 
who  believe  in  God  and  in  themselves — oracular,  without 
apology,  without  abasement — fearlessly.  He  tells  of  the 
powers  and  mysteries  that  pervade  and  guide  all  life,  all 
death,  all  purpose.  His  work  is  masculine,  as  the  sun  is 
masculine;  for  the  Prophetic  Voice  is  as  surely  masculine 


WALT    WHITMAN 


143 


as  the  lullaby  and  lyric  cry  are  feminine.  <J  Whitman  brings 
the  warmth  of  the  sun  to  the  buds  of  the  heart,  so  that  they 
open  and  bring  forth  form,  color,  perfume.  He  becomes  for 
them  aliment  and  dew;  so  these  buds  become  blossoms, 
fruits,  tall  branches  and  stately  trees  that  cast  refreshing 
shadows  &  Jt> 

There  are  men  who  are  to  other  men  as  the  shadow  of  a 
mighty  rock  in  a  weary  land — such  is  Walt  Whitman. 


SO  HERE  ENDETH  BOOK  ONE  OF  GOOD  MEN  AND  GREAT, 
THE  SAME  BEING  ONE  OF  THE  SERIES  OF  LITTLE  JOURNEYS, 
AS  WRITTEN  BY  ELBERT  HUBBARD:  THE  BORDERS  AND 
INITIALS  BEING  DESIGNED  BY  ROYCROFT  ARTISTS,  AND 
THE  WHOLE  DONE  INTO  A  PRINTED  VOLUME  BY  THE 
ROYCROFTERS,  AT  THEIR  SHOP,  WHICH  IS  IN  EAST 
AURORA,  ERIE  COUNTY,  NEW  YORK,  IN  THE  YEAR  MCMX 


8 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
Santa  Barbara 

STACK  COLLECTION 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


' 


J>    •    ' 


